A hypothetical conversation

(A hypothetical chat between a boy and a girl over social site. Boy prefers him calling a writer, girl prefers calling her colorful.)


colorful.90 is busy.

writer : hi!
Sent at 11:29 PM on Sunday

colorful.90: hello

writer : so you have installed gtalk

colorful.90: no was chking my mails...hav not installed it yet..

writer : :D okk

colorful.90: hmmm...hw r u doing btw??

writer: good. exam is from the 15th :(

colorful.90: ohhh...mine will b from then as well...whats ur dept?

writer: I.T.I don't like IT btw. ironic, isn't it?

colorful.90: y??

writer: i dont like the coding sort of thing...and there are several reasons

colorful.90: okkk...no idea do i hav ac2aly.

writer: ok, i understand.

colorful.90: hmmm...

writer: u r happy with english?

colorful.90: yeah...i guess...actually its never lyk wht i xpected...bt m happy...

writer: so u never wanted to get into an iit or something?

colorful.90: iit??? r u in d verge of insulting me or something...dont pull my leg!! :(

writer: ahh, i was jst asking if u had any urge to go for the enggn thing. sorry. did u mind?

colorful.90: no...no...y do i mind? i tried for jee n aieee bt not fr myself bt for my dad...!! n dd tremendously bad!

writer: i guess ur heart was into these literature things

colorful.90: alwaz...it helps me xpress...since m a big introvert...

writer: trust me, any guy, or girl, from any missionary school is an introvert.......has to be

colorful.90: y??? dont kno ac2ally! all ur frnds from missionaries r lyk ds,i guess...
so d impression??

writer: I myself am from ramkrishna mission, it applies for me too :)

colorful.90: okkk...i do c....
Sent at 11:45 PM on Sunday
colorful.90: gone???

writer: no. i m here
Sent at 11:49 PM on Sunday
colorful.90: den?? blogging??

writer: :) nopes. do u think i always blog? :O

colorful.90: noo...jst lyk dat...u need to concentrate whn u write...

writer: ok i get it. you read novels a lot right?

colorful.90: have to..rather forced to..hehe..

writer: do u have any favs? like fav writer, or fav novel

colorful.90: mmmm....not as such...like jane austen...

writer: any indian writer?

colorful.90: may b jhumpa lahiri...bt dont ask me nything abt her...i dont kno much...read Namesake...
n some of her short stories...

writer: i haven't read a single of JL

colorful.90: u read sidney sheldon??

writer: a long time ago. he is good. have u?

colorful.90: yeah...writes raw...i hav read only 1 of his..

writer: yeah, dat's what i was gonna say :) well anyway, every raw material does have an inner meaning within itself.

colorful.90: r u into films???

writer: yup, not in a serious way though

colorful.90: serious way bole toh??? jst watch it for fun...

writer: yeah dat's what it is

colorful.90: u dwld??

writer: nopes. not films. don't have dat enthu

colorful.90: okkk...y??? dwld from torrent..its fast...1day for 1..i toh alwaz keep on dwlding...

writer: ok, so what are you dloading now a days

colorful.90: if u evr get a chance...do watch stendhal syndrome...i m dwldin pyaasa..well, its included in my course tho..

writer: gurudutt?

colorful.90: yeah...
Sent at 12:15 AM on Monday

writer: so why did you tell me that u are introvert? u are not one

colorful.90: not here...bt meet me sometym n u'll kno...

writer: are you kind of a shy person?

colorful.90: yeah kinda...bt i hav developed a bad habit...

writer: what is dat

colorful.90: whn m depressed or ovrjoyed...i seem to tell it to every1 dat asks me...its not since late...
i cry in front of dem...its jst ridicullous...i hv nevr bn lyk ds...all i used to share was wid my mum n sisters n nevr wid strangers! whr r u??

writer: i am here. i am listening

colorful.90: seeking for an answer?? its a good thing for me to share with a stranger...

writer: if ur problem is dat u cry, den i must say it is not a problem at all.........everyone cries

colorful.90: i kno...bt bad whn ppl turn them into laughables. i m so prone to it..

writer: try to control ur nerve in those situations.............

colorful.90: dats whr it lies...d matter is i cannt control my emotions!

writer: just remind of ur parents in those situations and how u would not let them down in any way....u will become a strong person, i can tell u dat.

colorful.90: hmmmm....thanx 4 dat...

writer: anytime:)

colorful.90: so y do u think u r an introvert?

writer: do u really wanna know

colorful.90: ya...

writer: because i fear myself

colorful.90: what?? bt y?? u dont trust urself??? lack of confidence??

writer: :) ha ha. nopes. u wont understand. leave it

colorful.90: no i will. tell me. plzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sent at 12:36 AM on Monday

writer: ok ok. see people who write stories and other things have a good and a bad within themselves.....and the good has to suppress the evil, so that whenever the evil wants to come out, the good suppresses it making the bad person unavailable from the real world........so that the evil resides in the virtual world, wandering in the dark corners of the city, writing stories and other things, or may be seducing girls at times..... :P

colorful.90: okk..i guess i got u...smtyms u kno a complx wrks for me2 to keep me shut up... inferior do i feel...i really m..

writer: well, i am sure dere's something at which you are special

colorful.90: dont kno...its so deppressing whn i c d ppl doing so much n me doing nothing...not evn half d thing..! dey kno so damn much...

writer: do you dance?

colorful.90: i do...bt its all sympathy dat i gain...

writer: dancing makes a person special, no matter whoever she is. read Paulo Coelho's ''The witch of portobello"

colorful.90: its all d same from a distanc...come closer n u c wht it is...its nevr so easy...

writer: life itself is not easy dear, that's why when we actually have something we keep thinking how lucky we are.

colorful.90: u dont kno hw it is whn suddenly after 18yrs of ur life,u r askd to chang ur perception...to c d wrld in a different light...bt i dont think i am lucky...i wish i got luckier...if not luckier den y m i placed here among d aristocrats whn i belong to a typical middle class family?? who knos no culture...no art....only buks...engineers...doctors....i wish....i guess i m getting u bored..

writer: i still keep saying you are someone special :)

colorful.90: dat brings a smile...bt y do u think so??? jst bcoz i dance??

writer: :D not at all. okay. tell me. what can I do to make you feel special? may be write a story about you?

colorful.90: about me??? bt u do not kno me much i guess...
a secret for u in ds regard...well...i write too...bt not much...

writer: I know dat. not much of a secret. so anyway are u willing to give me the permssion to write abt u

colorful.90: okkk...fine...lets c what u hv 2 say bout me...so do u alwaz refer to real life characters dere??

writer: mostly persons those are/were attached to me

colorful.90: hmmmm....i saw u wrote abt a gal...u may b ignored her or or somthing...
kinda...u hav / had a galfrnd?

writer: am i supposed to answer that? :)

colorful.90: no. u r not bound to!!! only if u wish...

writer: okay. the ans is yes :D but dont take too srsly.

colorful.90: u hav!! kewl...

writer: not have, it's had.

colorful.90: okkk....hmmmm...so is it...fine...leave itwe r kinda emotional ppl.

writer: yess. right

colorful.90: so lets not tok abt it!! m n emotional fool...wabbout u??

writer: ermotional saint may be.......... :P

colorful.90: ookkk. u said u kno AB... ryt???

writer: yup

colorful.90: hmmmm....hw is he...btw?? i find him vry sweet...smtyms stupid! wt u think?

writer: he's a nice guy actually

colorful.90: u were in skul na???

writer: yes

colorful.90: u kno we had a big chaos...whn he had his last gf...u kno abt her?

writer: no way...................why would I care about anyone's gf? anyway what was it about ?

colorful.90: come on...i jst said it lyk dat....no leave it...dats fine...i shud not b bothering u abt sm1 else... sorry!

writer: no it's fine.
hey can I ask you one thing. it's personal actually

colorful.90: wht?? if i hav a boyfrnd?

writer: no. I wont ask dat anyway.

colorful.90: okkk...say...

writer: who named you Colorful? is it a too personal ques to ask?

colorful.90: i dont think so...bt u kno...its difficult to get thru u guys...u r fine at tyms...n den suddenly...u jst burst...it gets me confused! fine...all apart...dats my mum...who gifted d sam

writer: I guessed it could be your father. anyway it's a nice name. dat's why i m asking

colorful.90: my dad is not into literature n arts at all...n ds was an inspiration..so my mum gav it...tell me smthing......dd i irritate u or smthing?

writer: nopes........why do u think so?

colorful.90: jst felt so....d way u reacted whn i askd abt AB's gf......was pretty odd! was lyk a shock to me...so changed!

writer: i am never irritated by anything u say but the thing is i don't want to talk about people's gfs in here and relationship in big cities are nothing....i don't have faith in it....so whenever people keep talking about gfs and bfs and all, I stay away.

colorful.90: yeah...i kno...i m not evn asking u to do so...u kno it cud hav bn polite...at least its smthing xpected from u...i was telling u an incident....not wht she was lyk or hw she was lyk....i myself is not interested...y to bother u?? my fault actually...

writer: sorry, i shouldn't have acted that way

colorful.90: u dont kno my xpressions when reading my lines...bt i guess i do....so it rose...
fine...not a prob....anyway i have to go back to my lonely life.

writer: hey i am really sorry for acting that way. just let it go please.


(The guy keeps pleading afterwards, and the girl settles in her shell once again. She takes an oath not to share anything with a guy ever after in her life over the social profile. She deletes the guy from her friend list just after the conversation gets over. As for the guy, after a no. of pleadings he gets confused and decides to drop the matter. He doesn't find the girl online afterwards as she had already deleted him from her list. The guy keeps on waiting for her and after a long time forgets completely the fact that the conversation stated above ever happened.)


-June '10

Scatterd notes 2

A few things made me cry badly today. I don't know whether it is because I get too much sentimental sometimes or because unfortunate things tend to happen with my life pretty silently. I am tired of making people laugh with silly jokes and smooth talkings...sometimes I feel I really need a hug from a friend or family, someone who will hug me tight and say that everything will be alright. Feeling so low, mentally. So alone. Don't know what to do. Don't want to talk to friends I talk to everyday at the social sites. God! I really want someone right in front of me who will make me feel higher. I have stopped writing stories. Stopped studying. Don't know what to do. Gods from the lonely places, help me with something.



-May '10

‘Mediocre things’ like love

13th April, 2010. 12.45 pm in the noon


Five days after I had had the desktop, needless to say for the very first time in my life, my early introduction with the computer world being through the laptop given by the college (doesn’t mean it came as free though, the college charged as many as double its original value) here I sit at the same corner of my bed looking at the 18.5” PHILIPS LCD screen. Net is not working, as most of the time it does not. Too bad I have a doubt that the modem itself is in some kind of problem. No communication with friends is possible, given the internet issues, and my poor phone scheme. Life keeps waiting for thrill in the way of some excitement, and if they do not come, you’ll have to either wait for it, or keep reading ‘100 ways to impress a girl’, or may be stuffs like ‘In the wonderland of Indian managers’ or ‘Be the most effective manager in your business’ in the worse case.

It is the month of April. Hot, hot and more hots to come in the weather reports. Staying in New Alipur does have the specialty which no other place does. You get the weather reports from each and every person you come across in the colony. “We predict the weather, buddy”, as they all say. Anyway, no college for me now, at least for a week or so (Keeping in mind that I will have to sit for the unit test, just after that). But who the hell studies for a mere unit test! I would rather have a walk around the lake places twice a day (given the fact that someone urges me to sit down and study for the tests, otherwise it’s hard to go that far in this time of the year). But nevertheless, I make the walk once a day, settling the time in the evening.

Life is not as boring as it could be when you want to see someone, and she is not there for a stupid reason. Well, the ‘Mj-girl’ (the neighbour-colony girl turned into M-thing- Long story) sent me a message stating that she is taking a leave for 45 days or so for her final year exams. She also said that she had deposited applications for the leave.

“Don’t be unmindful while doing the classes. See you after the 28th,”as she added a big smiley in the text message.

Fuck. Who is going to be mindful to the lectures anyway? As if she knew, had she not been present, I would not be able to concentrate on anything. How do girls always know what’s going on?

Forget her, I said. She has a boyfriend, for God’s sake. And they are happy with each other (provided that either of them, or in the best case for me, both of them were not faking the kiss on the road). Set your priorities right, and act accordingly. MBA is the only thing you should have in your mind right now.

“Yes, of course I know that.” I muttered, and drew my mobile.

“What are you doing?” I asked myself.

But it was too late. I had already sent a text message to her saying I miss her. And the next moment, I regretted for doing that.

“You are a loose character like hell. Now I know why she left you.” Another ‘me’ told inside me.


I played with the mobile a bit, waiting to see if an answer came through message. It didn’t come, in fact. I got bored, went to the kitchen, searched for some snacks, and when I didn’t find any, got twice as bored as previous. I shouldn’t have sent the message. There’s nothing pitiful like when you text a person and they don’t answer back. I kept looking at the building on the opposite side of the road from where the Punjabi family went away a couple of months ago. People are not as bad when they are alone as they look in public. Well, I thought about Pallabi and turned my face away. There’s nothing one could do with a girl full of vanity from a beauty contest win, or may be an academic excellence, talented enough to write poems, Varanasi background or in the worst case (and I think this one is the main cause) of a foreign connection. Trust me, Boston sucks.


I saw her mother on the way back home one day. She was probably returning home from the ‘Arambag’s chicken’, with that grumpy face, spreading a feel of being agitated all the time. I felt like going to her and say, “Hello aunty, how are you?” Given the fact that whenever I called at her home, most of the time it was her mother who would receive the call first, and hand it over to her, I had an emotional attachment to her mother, or rather to her mother’s voice. Anyway, I am not going to make any more calls, so no chances of hearing those voices of mother and daughter.

Rather, I thought about other things. The fact that she made me look ridiculous by not answering to anything made me feel fuming at her at times. In fact in my mind I had imagined such situations where we meet and I make comments about her personal life in front of her friends which leave her in tears. I imagined further situations where we meet and she says hello, whereas I ignore her and keep walking, thus stating that I can live without her. And there were situations where I would talk about the flirting nature of her, or may be discuss about how proud she felt when she gulped down vodka as cocktail. Or should I tell her something about the pictures where she drew the wannabe boyfriend (the R-thing, I hate to take the name though.) close or held hands in public. Go to hell. Or even better, take a shortcut while going. I don’t need any of your dreams to live.

But all these things seem to fade away whenever I thought about the moments I stood beside her. I decided that some parts of my heart are still in love with her, or rather with the thoughts of her. So I let things be like that.

Now back to the M-thing. Time to elaborate.


One month ago, evening.


I, sort of struggled with my ankles as I reached the Rashbehari Avenue. How far someone has to travel to find a computer-table store? It may be a big city, but it also a city of worthless people, with things arranged at wrong places, at wrong time. I decided to suspend my intentions to find out signs of computer tables and headed towards the Chetla bridge.

I was irritated. These days, even the traffic police will lead you to the wrong avenues. I asked for ‘P.M.R. Road’ and the officer showed me the way towards a slum, which cannot be the address of the girl I was looking for. So tonight, I walked past the site where once I asked for the directions to an officer.

I headed for an electrical goods stall, where a man was standing along with the storekeeper.

“Excuse me; do you happen to know where the P.M.R. road is?” I asked, approaching the storekeeper.

He smiled, looking at the other person standing in front of him, and asked me to ask it to that person. This person seemed to be pretty energetic. “What is the number? Do you have any number with you? P.M.R. road is a long road to be exact.”

I hesitated. The fact that I was searching for a girl made my mind fill with a criminal sense.

I smiled.

“Well, my friend told me to wait near that place. Is there a number P or something?” I made my face look confused.

“Okay let’s see here, you can call your friend near the ground, you know, the ground for the occasions. Do you have his number with you? Make a call and call him near that place”

You messed with the gender, buddy. I thought.

“Sure. And thanks for helping” I performed a formal Colgate ad, and left the stall.

And then after running to and fro for an hour or so, I found the building out. The building is named as Mj apartments. I stopped near it, bought two chloro-mints from a nearby shop, and walked back home. I made a count for the time taken to get back from her home to that of mine as if I had to solve a time-distance problem. Forty five minutes. Amazing.

And then the neighbour-colony girl turned into Mj-girl in no time. Funny old world.


A shrill sound in my mobile brought me back from my memory-journey.


Present day, 1.15 pm in the noon.


“I have seen dreams to be far apart,
And I have lost things that were not of my possess.
People say that flowers always smile,
But I have seen flowers weep in loneliness.”


I read the four lines for the fifth time to make something out of it, but it proved to be futile.

What kind of a person answers a simple message like ‘I miss you, take care’ by something like that? Where the hell did the flowers come from? Am I supposed to decode it, in case something else has been coded inside these words? What kind of flowers is she talking about? Am I supposed to bring flowers for her next time I meet her? No, this is not possible, and I ruled out this possibility. What else could she mean? Is she having issues with her boyfriend? I cannot be so sure.

But once you are in a conversation with a girl, don’t stop it by yourself. I messaged her again.

“I certainly hope you are not among those flowers which you have seen crying. You have no reasons to be a pessimist. Keep smiling. And that way the world around you will be happy too.” I sent it within two minutes.

By doing this, I did two things right. One, I flirted in a harmless way calling her a flower. And two, I sort of energized her up, which in the tough times of exams, is badly needed.

After a few moments, another message comes to the inbox.

“Don’t take my words too seriously. Sometimes I go crazy and talk in a volatile way. Anyway, I will meet you on the 30th. I hope classes will be on that time. You take care too. Bye bye.”


Evening. On the same day.


“Is it really necessary, mom?” I demanded.

My mother made a face I hate the most. Why is it always me who has to escort her in every place? Can’t my father go with her to some of the places she wants to visit?

“Okay, I will go, but make it quick.”

My mother wanted to visit the Shiva temple. And it meant that I will not be able to take a walk around the southern avenues.

“Should we take the keys?”My mother asked.

“Whatever.”I checked my mobile as we came down.


On the way, I made a plan.


We left the temple soon, and I took her to the infamous Kabir road.

“What do you say about this place? Isn’t it quiet here?”

My mother kept looking at the houses, and then told that it was the place for only rich people.

As we walked, we approached Pallabi's house.

“What tree is this?” I asked. We were standing right in front of her house.

“I don’t know this one. But that one, at the far end is Rubber, surely.”

I expected the meeting in front of her house will be on tonight, but much to my luck (bad or good?) there were no one present at the booth. We walked as we came towards the main road.

“You come this far every day?”My mother asked.

“Why? Is it odd, or is it far enough for a boy of twenty-two to have a walk in the evenings?”

“Why do you always have to mention your age? I am your mother; I know how old you are.”

“Well, maybe it is time for me too to make up my mind for something as one of my cousins did when he wanted to marry a girl of his choice stating that he was twenty-four.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want some fuchkas? There’s a stall just round the corner.” I showed her the way to the most delicious fuchkas of the city.


Night, half an hour after Kolkata lost the match against Chennai.


I changed the plot of my first novel ‘Friday’ several times and even so, it looked like immediately after the second chapter, the reader would start doubting the ability of the writer (in this case, which was going to be me) and stop reading it altogether. I became fed up.

I assessed the old plots and kept thinking where did I go wrong. Half an hour later, I found out ten reasons to be responsible.

PROBLEMS WITH PLOT NO. 1

First, a lady can’t handover her diaries before committing suicide; to a person she has never known in her life. This is one thing. Another thing is that, I am not good at writing interviews with people who are supposed to have known that lady, let alone be the thoughts of writing real ones.

PROBLEMS WITH PLOT NO. 2

It is more than certain that I can’t go on writing a novel based on a break-up, and show the main character as a vagrant, without any intention of presenting a real story. Well may be I can; but soon the reader will lose all sorts of interests from the novel, and it will turn into a disaster.

PROBLEMS WITH PLOT NO. 3

‘Friday’ cannot be simply the story about a lady or a man. It must be the story of a misunderstanding, and a day that everyone concerning the lady would like to forget. From that respect, my novel is so much fucked up.

PROBLEMS WITH PLOT NO. 4

I cannot present the name ‘Friday’ as a person who was very close to the main character, in this case which is Jipsa. Should I show ‘Friday’ as someone who liked her and wanted to be close to her, or was it someone who sought bad things of the world to happen with her. Once again I am in a dilemma.

PROBLEM 5

I don’t know much about the main character Jipsa.

PROBLEM 6

I have no idea how on earth she could commit suicide, or even think about it.

PROBLEM 7

I don’t have enough time to finish ‘Friday’ as a novel.

PROBLEM 8

My previous copy of ‘Friday’ was in my laptop, which was affected by viruses. And also the laptop was now severely broken. So both from the software and the hardware way, the documents inside the laptop were inaccessible.

PROBLEM 9

I don’t know any publisher, living or dead, who would like to publish my writing.

PROBLEM 10

I don’t have a girlfriend.


I scratched the last point in my imaginary notebook with the virtual pen I was taking notes. How on earth, I not having girlfriend can affect writing a novel? Well, of course there are possibilities that given the fact that I had one, she would have encouraged me enough to write at least couple of chapters more. And also I would have been more experienced to handle complex things. But that is mere a chance. And relationships cannot be built by the bricks of chances.

I sat up on the bed.


Sj came into my mind. What should I say to her when we meet again? Should I just smile and say nothing? I hope an ‘are you alright?’ or ‘how are you?’ will do. Keeping in mind the recent circumstances maybe I should further go on and say ‘how was your exam?’

All these things seem real complicated. I don’t want another smile, or another flirt. I am shameless, and I admit that way, I want someone more than a girlfriend and I search for her in each and every moment of my life. I know, a few went away, a few ignored, and the others were avoided (I am too afraid to give the percentage though).

I decided to say ‘hello’. To be a bit modest, I considered adding a smile.

And then I slept.


But before I end this writing, I must copy something from my diary of December, 2006 and put that in here. Given the fact that I am going to name this writing as ‘mediocre things like love’, I must put some of my first love experiences into it.


December, 2006


“Before shutting the windows I took the smell of the chhatims for the last time. Now it’s been a lonely, closed room with its only sound of ticking the clock. I switched on the table lamp and everything could be seen by that in the room. The half-open books and copies on my bed, the newspaper, the pillow, the half-ate biscuit packet and lastly, my diary. I put off my windcheater and comforter and did let them hang from the hooks. I took my diary, kept it on the table and sat on the chair.

“Another shock from a girl...” I muttered again. The only line I have written on the paper. I was about to write a love story but my pen can’t write a single line beyond it. Perhaps I would be the first ever to write a story by a single line. My story was about a boy who has fallen in love many times, but every time he has got refused or detached from the girl. His mind gets affected every time and the thoughts of happy past weaken his mind. And then how his girlfriend bring him back to his normal life and they fall in love with each other, but fail to tell it.

Right here my thoughts are not proceeding. Both the two think, the other one treats him/her as a friend only and a big doubt stands between them, whether they share love, or just friendship.

Actually this story is the reflection of my own opinion that a boy and a girl can never be just friends. One of their minds always thinks that the other one is surely in love with him/her. This strong faith resists the building of a relationship between a boy and a girl and that is the so-called ‘friendship’.

The doors opened, silently and suddenly, and my mother entered the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a sleepy and astonishing voice.

I was about to answer something but as soon as I saw that her eyes have fallen into my diary, I changed my mind and went straight ahead, “writing some answers on physics. Why?”

She turned back, and I left the deep breath. I knew about her poor eyesight without glasses, and got the best opportunity to lie.

“Who is Pallabi?”

“Who is Pallabi?” I questioned back to back.

The next moment was silent all along. But I was pretty quick in correcting myself and told, “My friend, why?”

“Why do you write her name so many times at your rough copies?” she threw the question leaving the room.

I closed my eyes and put my head on the hands. The night guards at the road whistled and I looked at the clock, 2.10. One can almost say good morning to me. I will never mind for telling that.”



A small epilogue.


Do you still remember what Sj had said?


“I have seen dreams to be far apart,
And I have lost things that were not of my possess.
People say that flowers always smile,
But I have seen flowers weep in loneliness.”

-April, '10

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