Raindrops on My Island Green...

Nothing. Simply Green and Blue Rain. Imagine!

Olpo Kotha...Onek Kotha!

"Jani Dekha Hobe Thother Bhetore... Ghumer Adore... Jani Dekha Hobe Raater Shorire... Tomar Gobhire..."

Kothagulo mon theke muchte parchina.

That Night.

That night you came to see me. That night when I lay on the sanitized bed waiting to be cleansed. That night you happened to stare at my eyes. That night I saw a drop or two wet my blanket. That night I lay purged. That night you failed to understand... yet again!

I know...

I know you cried. I know you died. I know you revived. I know your tears have dried.

Drown yourself in grief. There is not much left to whatever is called 'life'.

Ghum!

Ghum parani gaan toh shonale onek... Ghum bhangate toh shekhale na!

Eye on I

Oh yes, cats. I hate cats. Polo tells me the cat comes by the kitchen window every morning. Sheli loves cats. Sheli is gone.

Where am I? I have a part of me living there with them. I see myself making breakfast every weekend, I see myself counting days till home-going, I see myself extending my leaves at the last moment, I see myself whispering in the night. He is gone, he never meant to stay. I was a fool. I still am.

I am back to the base, newly wed with desire. I have done away with inhibitions, I can kill.

Some people do not matter any more. Some have made me renew life's subscription. All the others need not bother, 'cos I don't.

I go back to the house every noon and night. I talk I cook, I love, I sleep... dreamless. There are memories left to kill. I remember now, Cathy loves cats too! Cathy is gone too.

I am surrounded by fire. Peace.

Aaargh! Marriages!

Was a witness to a marriage in the neighbourhood last night. My batch-mates are now going the sanctioned seven rounds and one can hardly ignore or escape the looks of 'you-are-the-next-in-the-row', I receive from everyone around me. I say I need time. People say do not drag it too long. I say what is 'too long'? People say you should do it in time. I say what is 'in time'?. People say you should not wait till you grow old. I say what is 'old'? My questions are never answered. I have orders to abide by.

I still have questions, my unresolved self refuses to give up. Who deliberately jumps into a pit of hell-fire? Who wishes to burn down one's self in false hopes of love?

The looks around me grow intense. I the outsider.

Gory Glory!

It was just another day.

She wrote to me. She knows you. She loved you. She died too.

Life in circles, halo-ed existence.

You move in circles, pasting unholy crimes upon muddy walls. You washed your hands.

The blood still flows.

I stand a spectator.

Destroyed, Dead, Resurrected, Relieved.

It is just another day.

A Neutral Take and an Earnest Prayer.

I get it. My direction needs to be decided, to be measured intricately, to be observed well and to be duly advised. If I take the left side, I will be accused of being too rigid to welcome change, if I stray into the other part, people will scream heritage, culture, tradition and bla bla. There are a thousand ways to make me decide; the newspapers try it everyday, the channels scare me to death and online communities and social networking sites now make me see red (and green). I am called selfish, dumb, ignorant, indifferent and choose any word you may, when I try and take a middle path. I am forced to do away with my neutrality and my massive hatred towards politics in general and politics in Bengal especially. To those who try to manipulate me and people like me, I feel like screaming out... I won't change. Restrict your issues with the very word in terms of the two political parties if you may, do not even spell it out near me. I instantly see red (and green). I may even bite.

You claim to be nation lovers, to be the thinkers of a flourishing Bengal. I have seen Bengal drowning under lethargy, bandhs, murders, corruption, uncouthness, and take your pick please. I have seen Bengal fall to a state of ridicule. Thirty five years of rule has left Bengal scarred. False promises of improvement now shall not help. Bengal has stopped believing in you.

You claim to be usherers of change (the word makes me sick), dreamers of a new Bengal. I have seen only mud-slinging in you, with no motive to think of the betterment of the state, but with every intention of coming to power by hook or by crook (crooks predominating). You have not done things very differently from your enemy, you are just the other face of the same coin. Adding glamour to your side will not dazzle us to blindness. Bengal sees through you. (Or so I hope).

This vote is a saga of favouritism, of pretentiousness, of fake promises, of contenders with hugest criminal records, of hatred, of thirst for power, of a bleak future, of a deteriorated Bengal, of political games in the name of education, of mud-slinging in the name of power, of murders in the name of accusations, of unwilling martyrs, of a corrupt state.

Leave me, and if I may say so, the likes of me alone. I love Bengal too much to believe in your falsities. Leave your manipulative comments to yourselves. Change or no change I do not see happy tidings anywhere near Bengal for years to come. All of you out there, who dance to your party colours, benefit by doing so. All of you have your motives in place. There is no idealism left in this charred state once heralded as one of the richest (in all possible ways) in India. Let me mourn the death of my Bengal in peace. Amen.

Undistorted Happiness!

It was one morning nearly two years ago when the glass broke. The shattered pieces have been swept off and disposed after much pondering and a handful of tears. Life has been steady since then. Amen!

The Third Perspective

Suresh and I

Part I

I wore red that day.

There were promises made, garlands exchanged, kisses withheld. We got married under the half-fallen roof of the almost deserted temple; with five rupees worth ‘kumkum’, glass bangles, a black thread for ‘mangalsutra’, and small twigs pouting up a smoky excuse – what we heartily longed to believe to be the holy-fire.

No, this is no happily ever after story, neither is it a cry for sympathy or pity or relief. This is MY story – I a Graduate, from a below average Calcutta college, once employed as a secretary in one of the many upcoming private firms. I earned a decent amount, working not with any particular pleasure or interest, but with indomitable zeal nonetheless. I stayed with my parents, in a corner of a lane in the northern part of the city, and yes, my house got water logged every monsoon, and the garbage pickers seldom bothered to clean up the mess. And no, we had not stopped lodging complaints with the municipality and they had promised to help but you can be sure… oh! Let me not divert.

I was twenty two, and of course my parents were worried. They wished to see me marry some ‘well-settled’ man, and have kids. They did not know I was married, I did not know how to break the news; my husband was a man no doubt (pardon my foolish attempts at jesting), but ‘well-settled’ would not be the word for him. Suresh looked good, talked better and snored best. He got into petty jobs, and got out of them in a month or two. I had known him since two years, and had loved the driver, the mechanic, the delivery-man and the salesman in him! He adapted to every role so fast you see!

There was another ‘little’ problem – Suresh was prior married and had a son of five. No, do not call our marriage illegal, we married with hearts loaded with love and desire, we legitimized our bond with ‘kumkum’ (which I religiously wore and covered with a sly hair-parting, in the name of hairstyle) and I had the ‘mangalsutra’ tied around my waist (convenience and necessity satisfied). We went the sanctioned seven rounds around the ‘fire’ and bowed before the forlorn temple-god seeking blessings for everlasting bliss. And remember, I wore red that day! We could not register our marriage though, but that is only for the weak couples who lack mutual trust, as Suresh put it, and I believed him.

Suresh said his wife was forced on him when he was merely twenty three, (Biharis marry early, it’s almost customary). Their seven years of marriage was sustaining on habit, they did not even make love any longer! He visited his family every weekend or twice a month sometimes, and for the rest of the days, he was mine. We visited temples together, cuddled in movie theatres, kissed in parks, cooked up meals in his one room shanty, and then made love: wild, passionate and painful. I was conservative, I never visited his house before we got married… we never got beyond kisses and a little bit of… oh! Let that be! (Suresh was right, I talk a little too much; he was always right).

On most days I returned home past midnight, I blamed office overtime, my mother screamed, my father grunted, I rushed off to my room unaware and unbothered. I took a bath, brushed my teeth, and dreamt of the next day. My world looked new, my world looked true, and I fell asleep caressing the bite-marks on my breast. I realised I no longer had any association with the world other than with Suresh, he was me, he was in me, he was with me. He said he felt the same way. I believed him.

Part II

I remember the day we went to the fair; a huge messy affair, but Suresh seemed unusually excited. I comprehended the truth in a while when he bought a plastic cricket bat and ball, and a toy car. The look of extreme pleasure on his face while he paid for the goods made me cringe. It was his son’s birthday the coming week. For a moment I desired a curse to befall his village, some drought, or famine, or an epidemic or even fire. I wished them all dead; and dreamt of Suresh seeking comfort enwrapped in my breasts. But the thought lasted only for a moment. I hated myself then; I bought a battery robot for the child. Suresh was exhilarated; he kissed me harder and longer that night. And then I decided I needed a child.

I will never forget the look on his face when he first heard about our child. I wanted him to smile, to look jubilant, to have the same look of pride I had seen in the shop that day; I was wrong again. He looked fatally close to tears… of rage. He could not believe I had been irresponsible enough to have ‘forgotten’ the pills, and like the story line of any other B-grade movie, he wanted me to drop the baby. I protested, he panicked, I pleaded, he pledged, I cried, he screamed, I grovelled, he slapped… he slapped me hard! Suresh calmed down, apologised, and blamed his behaviour on labour-union tensions. He caressed my hair, and kissed my beaten-face. He washed my tears with his desire; he said he hated to see me cry. I believed him. I could not return home that night, neither the night next; I sat in his house all day trying to scrub off my scarred face with packs of ice.

His ‘labour-union’ tension came to light a few days later. His wife was pregnant too. Three months, almost the same as me. I failed to mask the hatred on my face. I cursed openly. He restrained from hurting me again. I forgot words. My eyes demanded answers, he gave me none. My eyes flooded, he looked away, my eyes searched his soul for a little hint, for a little assurance; he simply managed a sigh. He later called it a mistake in drunken stupor. I craved to believe him. He offered to take me to the clinic. Two children and an illegitimate child were beyond his economic prowess, he said. I barely managed to walk. I carried my pride. I threw up on his bed, cleaned the mess, hated every moment of my existence, picked myself up, and left.

Part III

My parents did not look shocked when I first shone the light of knowledge in their confused world… they looked devastated. But my father did not feign a heart attack, nor did my mother slap me, neither was I pushed out of the house disowned and forlorn. He called up the family doctor and pleaded a personal visit, while she silently went to the kitchen to warm me some milk! The doctor arrived; my story was re-narrated (of course leaving out the ‘unnecessary’ details) and advice was sought. He examined me and assured that the abortion would not be very painful, and would of course be a complete secret (thanks to the amount my father had agreed to pay). I screamed.

My mother stood by me like a wall, guarding me, assuring me, engulfing me in her canopy. She put me out a ‘saree’, brought out her old ‘mangalsutra’, and fished out a decent pair out of her collection of ‘shankha-pola’ and decked me up with care. She put the ‘sindur’ last, her face giving out nothing, only her eyes taking in the effect of the vermillion, as it settled comfortably on the careful parting of my hair, with measured pride, pleasure and magnified pain. She took me out to the neighbourhood that night, to every house known and unknown, where the unprepared faces took no time to smirk in the sly, or to let out a call to usher in the sweets as I had brought home ‘good news’. I became the most talked about girl in the neighbourhood who ran away (the smirk began) and got married to a ‘Bihari-engineer-husband’ (smirk widened) who was staying out of Kolkata for job purposes, (smirk accompanied by a wink and a twinkle in the eye) and of course, I was pregnant (smirk widened into a full-teethed smile). I did not care. I had learnt not to.

Smriti and I

Part I

Smriti was born on a sultry summer morning of July and she weighed a little more than four kilos. I opened my eyes to a feeble cry, looking at tiny red-skinned hands almost beckoning my milk. I cried. I saw Suresh stand there, knowing not how to react. I saw my mother stand a little apart, clearly not very appreciative of his presence amongst us, but seething with overwhelming emotions nonetheless. My father was not there. Suresh had begged his way back to my life. The neighbourhood would sober up on their gossip over evening tea for some time now, my mother thought. Divorce was almost out of question though, his family would disown him, Suresh explained. I did not bother much, my baby daughter had the face of an angel; her face devoured me whole.

Suresh’s visits were steady in the beginning, Smriti had grown very fond of her father, he always bought her a gift whenever he came, and my clever princess somehow realised how essential it was to keep the man happy for an assured flow of gifts forever, even when she was barely six months old. Her father was the only person who could trim her nails without her managing more than a few occasional whines; he was the only man who was allowed to bathe her, to touch her toys and to hold her tight when the time for her injections arrived. My father never came near me or my daughter, my mother did all she could to ensure us a perfect life, and slowly Suresh’s visits became rare.

It was now time to put Smriti into a Montessori school. The questions in the admission forms, the demands to interview both parents, irritated me. I did not want to call on Suresh for any favour; I cooked up stories praying not to get caught. My daughter started going to school, I went around looking for jobs. On one such day he arrived.

Part II

He was a widower of forty. He needed to start a family. He was my father’s acquaintance. He agreed to marry me and name my child his own. We got married on a sunny morning in a registrar’s office. There were no holy fires, no ‘kumkum’, no red ‘saree’ and no garlands exchanged. And yet we were man and wife legally permitted by society to live in a four-walled apartment and to make love whenever the animal instinct took over. I detested his body, his pale yellow skin, the smell of sweat under his armpits, the dirt in his nails, the way he belched, the sound of his snore… I hated his existence, I longed for Suresh, I craved for his warmth, I hated myself, I died every night.

Time fled, Smriti now joined a reputed convent school, I proudly went to the interview with her father, we displayed our mutual skills and well-being, and the admission was a cakewalk. Smriti was now registered as his daughter, we registered our marriage legally much after her birth - we claimed; the authorities looked a little unsure, but our easy charm and his easy money did much of the talking. Suresh returned.

Part III

Suresh came on a morning when I was hurrying to get Smriti ready for school. Her father was out early that day, and it was on me to drop her to school as she had missed the bus already. We were running late, we were running… when the doorbell rang.

Smriti did not go to school that day; she was left all alone to play with her doll house while we made love in my bedroom. I later wondered where all my concern and worry for the little one disappeared suddenly that day. I did not think of her trying to jump out of the veranda in her glee, I did not worry about her playing with the switch boards or tampering with the gas lighter. All that was left in the world was Suresh’s smile, which I gobbled up in a trice even before we managed to reach our bedroom. I did not ask him any question, he never gave any explanation. My trance broke when I heard a faint cry outside the door. My daughter was hungry; I had lost count of time.

Suresh’s wife preferred to stay with her parents as none of Suresh’s parents were now alive. Suresh had sold off his parents’ property to start off a business of his own. He was doing well, earning enough to sustain his family and to spare a little more to bring gifts for his ‘pari’. Smriti did not remember him from her past, she simply liked the new-found ‘uncle’ who brought her toys. Smriti’s father came to know Suresh to be an old friend of mine; he had grown pretty indifferent of late, his work more than exhausted him, much to my relief, and his inability to spare time for his family made him accept any ‘uncle’ whatsoever, without much-ado of an inquiry about his roots.

I was pregnant, it was Suresh yet again I was sure. My marital life hardly provided much of sexual endeavours to talk about; Suresh was a regular in that area. I had a normal delivery, Smriti’s father was overjoyed to have a son of his own; we named him Shubho.

Shubho and etc

Part I

Being a mother of two has not helped the journey. Being a mother of two who have been born out of wedlock (almost technically) has been rather unnerving, and being a mother of two who have been born of a man other than her husband is disastrous, I swear by it. Smriti has grown up to be her mother, she has my face, she has my heart, she is what I was all those years ago... (how long has it been now? I seem to forget... I forget a lot these days). Shubho is his father's darling. No, I am not talking about the 'sperm donor'(his disappearance act did not take long, I hear his sons are doing well in life now; whatever!) my husband found a piece of his life in Shubho, he bestowed him with all that he deprived Smriti of... Smriti has grown up to be a loner. She works in a reputed construction firm now; she is some Business Associate there. She is in love.

Shubho is in college, his father has taken great care to put him in the best (and costliest) of places. He studies engineering in Bangalore and comes over for the holidays. He is home now, no it is not semester break, my husband's 'shraddh' ceremony was conducted this morning. Shubho's barren head has made him priest-like. My husband died of a massive stroke while he was immersed in his drinking-drum(not technically). Shubho's eyes were swollen with tears, sleepless nights and endless memories.

Smriti had brought over her beau to the ceremony. He was an architect in her firm. He sat near my feet and silently watched the ceremony burn itself out. I was meeting him for the first time. I stared at him long, I heaved a heavy sigh. Sometime ago, after the last guest was seen out of the door, Smriti came and sat beside me on the bed. I was silent for a while. She talked of things here and there and struggled to drop the question. At last she managed to say nothing, but only what broke my heart, "Maa, does he not remind you of Suresh uncle? I don't know why he does that to me..."

Wise people (or perhaps the extremely unwise ones) often say that daughters look for their fathers in the life partner they choose. My unaware daughter is now treading that (un)wise path. She has set off to do what her mother had done in her youth. She is all ready to break her heart, shatter her existence.

The Final Lap

Smriti has to know. She needs to know that the father she has been mourning, the father whose ignorance and indifference often shattered her dreams, the father whose death bed she decked up with a thousand tears, incense sticks and flowers, the father who never even gave her a pat on the back to say a calm word, was a man her mother had never managed to love. He was our saviour, but not her father... not Shubho's father... I had intended to let him know the whole story, but I never gathered the courage to crumble his universe. I did not love him, true, but all these years of living together made me learn to tolerate him, to maybe, like him a little, at the most. She has to bear the burden of her mother's life, she will be the sole soul who has to let go of her life for her mother's sin; she has to suffer. She has to know that the man she has planned to marry is none other than her own half brother... Suresh's eldest son. She has to die a thousand deaths henceforth...every night, forever.

Sweet nothings...

Nothing... nothing right now looks sweet! Nothing at all...

Foreplay!

Words

Warring words

Weird warring words

Woven weird warring words

Warring words woven weird?

Woven weird words warring?

Words puffed out stealthily into the night sky, I randomly stick them on my walls. The stench cools down my senses. I breathe.

Words play with me, they defeat me, they jumble up before my eyes, crawling briskly like a swarm of ants... I hate games.

I do not wish to play with words. Period.

Ogo Shuncho...

Pasher barir Khogen Mittir thikana chaichilen...

Amar thikana, tomar na. Bhabcho thatta korchi? O maa! Ta keno hote jabe? Oi je shedin jaam bagane amar kena momer putul tumi jaliye dile... Shedin jedin tomar thoter ghaye megh cheere brishti anle, shedin'i toh gorbo kore chokh rangiye bolechile, 'bhule jao'. Ami nimeshe bhule gechilam. Tomar dewa adhpora chaand ar oi neel ronger shareeta, kichui ar nei. Na, cchhire felini, tate je tomar maan boddo bere jeto... Daan kore diyechi, oi shushomar meye anita ke. Ar oi adh peyala chokher jol ar du kouto kajol ekhono mekhe rekhechi... tomaye bhalobeshe na, ghrina bhore.