Boomerang

I love her and I can’t lose her ever, to anyone. She’s mine and she belongs to me; wherever she is, in whatever she does, whoever she is with. It was destined to be that way. And I believe in the power of Maktub. You may call it my obsession or write it off as an idiosyncratic disorder of heightened passion and extreme possessiveness of a maverick. Call it whatever you want to, I don’t care. I hate anyone who tries to come between me and her and I swear to God, I can cheat, steal or kill if I must, to protect my love. I am in love with her like I have never loved another person, and I have a right to destroy anything that stops me from reaching her. Yes, I am an iconoclast. I don’t believe in traditions, nor do I subscribe to the norms of fearing the inevitable wrath of the Supernatural. She’s my God, the divine that I completely submit myself to, the omnipotent, omnipresent remote control of my senses, my intellect and my emotions. And nothing and no one is allowed the liberty to trespass into my territory. Yes, am crazy about her, am insane, you might say. But I can’t refute that woman’s all pervasive power on me, I can’t deny my yielding to that magical charm called love,  and I can’t deny us the togetherness that we deserve, come what may.

You may begin to think, why is this eccentric lover illogically rambling about his lady love when he can go and simply utter the vows and take her home? What’s stopping him? One man. I met my lady when she was already married to another man. He is a nice guy, everyone tells me. And he loves her dearly, she confirms. What do I care? I still hate him. I hate him for having time to his advantage and making good use of it. He married my girl. So what if she hadn’t met me or fallen in love with me then? She should have always known that she was the chosen one for me. I sometimes get angry thinking about her impatience, her rush to marry a well settled Mr Nice Guy. I can’t forgive her for not waiting for me. But then, I can never hate her for any of her sins. She was innocently ignorant of my presence whilst he stole her away from me. I hate him for dragging her into this temporary marital arrangement that I do not believe in. One day, am going to get her back to where she belongs... in my arms! And mind you all, protectors of the sacred institution of marriage, it’s not a duel. I am just too smart to let fate play the Russian roulette again. Failure in this matter is not an option anymore. It’s a war, and I will win.  Yes, I will do that, and no matter what price I need to pay, I will get my girl back.

I dial a number. The phone’s ringing. Mr Nice Guy picks up the phone and exchanges pleasantries with me. He’s a smart bastard; suave, diplomatic and shrewd to the core. He treats me like he would treat any of his wife’s close friends. I am extremely tempted to tell him that I am more intimate with his wife than he ever can be and see how he reacts! Would he continue to spill such polite social greetings on me if he found out that even his beautiful wife believed in her heart that she belonged to me? Wouldn’t he want to slit my throat? Anyway, why do I care? I want her. Period.

I don’t really want to talk to him but I have to, so I listen while he speaks. She is not at home; pampering herself on a shopping spree with some of her girlfriends, he informs me.  “You know the girlie stuff,” he laughs. I almost blurt out and tell him I even know the shade of the last lipstick she picked up half an hour back, but restrict myself. He invites me over for tennis and some chilled beer. I tell him it might be a good idea to follow up with a drive over the hill after a few games. He agrees and I hang up with the most sinister smile on my face. No, I don’t feel like Count Dracula. I am not a crook or a scheming politician. I don’t play games, am also not dishonest. I’m only fighting for my right. There’s a Lucifer in all of us, part angel, part devil. Today’s am the devil’s advocate. It’s a war, you see, and a fair game is only an offshoot of peace.   

I drive up to her place in my sports attire, looking as good as I could with a synthetic smile on my mask. Mr Nice Guy greets me in a pair of white shorts and a tennis shirt. He swings his racquet in the air and I’ve half a mind to hit him hard with it to blow his skull, but I tell myself I have better plans. He calls me “mate” and I join in the pseudo camaraderie as if he were my best friend.

The score’s even and we are bored. I want some chilled beer and Mr Nice Guy tells his Man Friday to get some chilled cans. A light snack accompanies the drinks. I want to use the washroom and Mr Nice Guy shows me how to get there.

I splash water on my face, wondering what I am doing here playing and drinking with my biggest enemy. I hate him and I am not going to feel sorry for him. His sin is unforgivable. I walk back to the terrace where Mr Nice Guy has already laid out a fine arrangement of drinks and quick munchies for me. I pick up a can. He hands me over a stylish crystal mug frothing with chilled beer. We raise a toast and I think I see a wicked smile on his face. I am not sure. I don’t see his layers nor understand his astute expressions. And I try to imagine how difficult it must be for my simple and beautifully innocent girl to live with a man so different from her. My anger builds up gradually. I gulp in the beer as quickly as I can and ask him out for a drive to catch the evening sunset over the hill. He agrees and suggests picking up his new DSLR to capture the last rays of the sun setting into the sea. I know he wants to flaunt it to me, just as he shamelessly exhibits my girl by his side to the rest of the world.

I am enjoying the drive as we go uphill. I take him to the far end of a cliff, hinting that would be the best view for a perfect shot. The ride is bumpy, almost like a drive into nowhere but I am liking it. He tells me I am wild. I correct him and say, “Adventurous is a better word.” He laughs a hollow laughter, and secures his feet on the ground facing the sunset. My mind deviates to the gorge below...the thousands of feet of nothingness, the perfect zero error site of my cold blooded plan. His eyes are on the lens and he’s oblivious to my huge frame behind him. I gather all my strength, and give him a push......   

It’s easier than I thought. I see him go down...down....down....hitting the rocks, over the trees, till his limp body flies into the deep. I turn around and head to my car. No, I don’t feel sorry for him. Why should I? I had nothing against him but he called for it. He married my girl. I start my car’s engine and my eyes start blurring....a strange numbness begins to overpower the sensations of my body. It is as if I am losing control...fading out into a sense of uncontrollable void, plunging into a fearful darkness I am unfamiliar with. I know something is terribly wrong, but what I don’t know as yet is that the poison in the beer has just begun to show its effects....           

Perfect Honeymoon

“Are you done? How long would you take to shampoo your hair? And I don’t understand why shampoo it now when you know it’s going to get dirty on the drive, anyway?” he was banging impatiently on the washroom door.

“Just shut up, and pass the hair dryer to me, will you?” she yelled back from behind the doors, slightly left ajar.

He could hear the splashing of water and imagined she would take at least another half an hour to dry her hair, wear make-up and doll herself up before they could actually start the journey he had been waiting for all his life. The sudden thought of his newly-wed bride, wet and innocently beautiful in her stark white bathrobe, stepping out of a steam bath filled up his senses. He pushed open the door and before she could say a word, pulled her into his arms.

“What?” she asked him with half-a-smile lighting up her face. Their eyes met and held each other’s glances for a moment. “Not now. We’ll be late,” she whispered softly, blushing and pulling herself out of his arms. “Go down, and start loading the car boot. I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Have you gone through your check list?”

“Nopes. It’s not my job. You ramble on and I’ll match and do one final check,” he replied.

“Okiedokie. Water?”

“Yes.”

“Four bottles?”

No, two. Baby, no one carries so much water from home. We can pick up a whole carton from the store at the gas station.”

“Fine. Camera. Cell phone. Batteries. Chargers.....”

“Yes, yes,.... no.”

“See, I knew you would forget the chargers. Stuff it in the knapsack. Oho...not there with my crèmes. The zip at the front, love,” she said peeping out of the dressing room.

“Ok, done. Next?”

“Cash. Credit cards. ATM cards, Cheque book.”

“Honey, we are not going for shopping! For heaven’s sake, it’s our honeymoon. And it’s deep in the woods, not in some shopping mall. They don’t accept credit cards.”

“Even then, take them along. I might fancy buying a tiger instead of a rock on my fingers! Shove them into your wallet. No arguments, no negotiations.”

“Yes, your highness. What else?”

“Mosquito repellent mats?”

“Nopes. Got Odomos. In that kind of a place as I am told, nothing works better. For all you know we may not have any electricity, my uptown girl.”

“Hmm. Candles. Torch, matchsticks and lighter then,” she suggested picking up her brown leather boots.

“Good. I have them in the car boot with all the other stuff for the tent. What else? Should I carry my laptop?”

“No way, you are not going to work!!!!” She threw a cushion at him.

“Ha..ha! I might write a travelogue while you sleep,” he laughed.

How beautiful she looked in a light beige cotton shirt, tied at the waist and khaki capris, the long and slightly wet hair let loose over her shoulders touching her waist and the sunshades over her head keeping the hair from falling on her face! “I am a lucky man” he confessed to himself looking at the love of his life, his soul mate and now his wife.  

Taking a sneak peek at the reflection on the mirror behind her, she observed his tall handsome frame running around her, matching her list to his needs and felt blessed that she belonged to him, and that they were finally together.  “Okay, we are done then. Get, set and go......,”she broke into a childish giggle picking up their favourite music CDs for the car stereo.

He was hurrying down the narrow staircase with the baggage, when he looked around and didn’t see her. “Now what? Where are you, baby? We are running late. Remember, we need to touch at least 500 kms today,” his voice rose a bit with a hint of edginess that he regretted immediately. She came out hurriedly looking guilty. Whilst her hands were full with baggage and other things essential for the trip, his guitar was flung over her shoulders. No, she hadn’t forgotten his best friend.

He took the guitar from her with a smile, happy to be in love with his “love absolute” and planted a tiny kiss on her cheek. “Thanks love. What would I do without you?”

“Nothing. You’ll never be without me again,” she said with a smile glued on her face.

The weather was perfect, the setting was perfect. Elvis Presley was crooning “Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with you,” as they joined in happy hearted like two little children miserably in love, thrilled that their dreams were all finally falling into place. After everything, they were man and wife, their vows were more sacred than ever now, their commitment more officially eternal than before and they were off to their honeymoon, to that place in their long awaited dreams and fantasies....

En route, occasionally, he stopped for a smoke. Where they crossed a spring, he stopped to pluck unnamed wild yellow flowers for her. Where they spotted a rainbow, she made him halt on the road shoulder, and jumped over a deserted railway track to capture the frame on her camera. “Can you ever touch a rainbow?” she asked him. “Yes, and I can try getting some of it for you,” he said, making a gesture as if he was picking a piece of heaven for her...and they both laughed. He drew her close walking back to the car singing in her ears...  “Like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be, Take my hand, take my whole life too, For I can’t help falling in love with you.”    

The sun had taken its last bow at the western horizon when they neared a factory area on the borders of a neighbouring state. Heavily loaded trucks were zooming past them, often blinding his vision with the headlights. “When will these rogues learn to use a dipper?” he grumbled and looked sideways for a supporting statement from his wife. She was fast asleep, her head tilted slightly on the headrest, lost in a wayward dream smiling to herself like a baby. Her innocence made him smile in return and he looked back at the dusty highway again. Just a couple of hours and they could spend the night in a lovely hillside resort they had booked in advance for the stopover. The honeymoon suite was already occupied, the manager had regretfully apologized over the phone. But he had been promised a “great view from the balcony” room in the resort.

 He was trying hard to concentrate on the road, manoeuvre through the unruly traffic when a huge lorry came head on from nowhere, apparently lost control of the brakes...and before he could swerve, came crashing down on them. Startled from her sleep, she screamed, he shrieked at the impact...their whole world had enveloped in a deafening noise, all he could see was one cannon of light thrown at him, splinters of glass flying into the air.....  and then there was nothing!

“Wake up, love! The car’s burning,” she pulled him out of the ravaging fire and enveloping pain.

“Are you okay, honey?” he asked looking up at her. She had a slight cut on the forehead but looked perfectly at peace, more beautiful than ever before, he thought. “Yes, I am fine. Are you alright, baby?” she touched him on his cheek and said, “Come, let’s go.”

He walked slowly, up to a moss coated culvert on the roadside and sat down recapitulating the accident as it occurred, when she pointed out to the distant honking of a lorry. Her eyes lit up and from the wild twinkle in them, he knew what she was thinking.

“Hellooo.....hello...wait..wait...lift,” they flagged down a lorry stacked with poultry driving uphill.

The driver, who looked like an old wise man with a long white beard was hesitant at first but gradually got lured by the money they offered to share space with the birds on his truck. Having found a way to continue their journey, the happy kids instantly forgot their trauma and the sufferings of the accident and hopped into the haystack and bamboo cages singing “Cock a doodle doo...” to the disinterested birds! 

Night was falling quickly in the tropics and as the temperature dropped with the moon rise, the two headed off to their destination honeymoon under a brilliantly lit symphony of stars. 

          

It was in the wee hours of dawn that the driver halted his truck and woke the love-struck couple sleeping huddled in a corner of his vehicle.

“We are almost there. The rest of the journey, you’ll have to cover on foot,” he told them.

Between the trees, a little feral brook gurgled alongside them, breaking out in tiny rapids over forgotten moss covered boulders and forming miniature eddies swirling in yellow and brown leaves of grass, frail branches and twigs and remnants of the track it had followed to reach this far into the wilds. The water was sparkling clear and sweet and they decided to soak themselves in its pristine touch. The air was unusually quiet, the ambience was divine in a rather mystical way. 

“There’s something about these woods. Do you see that strange bluish light?” he asked her pointing towards a beam of sun emerging out of the green undergrowth.

“Where? I can only see some dark tones weeping in the bushy corners and few bright dots of yellow teasing the leaves,” she said in return. Like two little children mystified in the wilderness, they were trying to read a poetry in green, blue and gold hues conducted in a mysterious riots of colours flaming the early spring landscape of a tropical rainforest. 

“Look, they are the same wild yellow flowers you had picked for me along the way. I like this place. But how far is the resort?” she grumbled.

Forest mornings are always very poetic and so naturally blessed with tranquillity, they are almost sacred to an extent. With the light changing colour, the entire ambience had undergone a quiet and deliberate metamorphosis. The air was now heavy with a strong forest smell, and the sound of the wild had shifted from the noise of insects to chirping of birds. Rustling over moist leaves, they came to the end of a trail and looked up at the first sign of artificial lights within the territorial area of a few hundred acres.

“That one. We are here, honey,” he said grabbing her hand and forcing her to keep pace with his excited footsteps.”

The manager, half awake and dewy eyed, signed them in. “One good news, Sir. The guest who had booked the special room cancelled the reservation. You can have the honeymoon suite,” he said grinning.

She noticed a bunch of the same wild yellow flowers at the reception desk and asked him its name.

“Parijaat, Madam. The flower of heaven,” he smiled.

Next to it, one little corner of the morning newspaper read. “Couple die in car crash. Lorry driver missing....”

They picked up the keys and with feet as light as feather, sauntered happily to their desired suite. He was holding her by the waist as she rested her little head on his shoulders, humming close to her ears... “Like a river flows, surely to the sea, Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be. Take my hand, take my whole life too, For I can't help falling in love with you...”

Today, they had no pains, no trauma, nothing to lose, expect or deliver. Not another finishing line in sight. It was their perfect honeymoon...for eternity.


This story is copyrighted. Any reprint or publication elsewhere without  permission would violate the copyright act.  Ananya Mukherjee 

My Little Magazine

After a few of you suggested, it finally occurred to me that we could all share a platform of common interests and diverse opinions. My Little Magazine (http://mylittlemagazine.blogspot.com/) is thus, a modest dais for all that you think is worth sharing with like-minded people, convincing the "not-my-type" or simply leaving them confused! Writers, wanna-be, amateur or professional, artists, cartoonists,photographers are all invited to contribute your two pence of what you think is a bit more than a two-liner update on your Facebook status! Let's think, and let's think together.... 
Warm regards, Ananya. 

CAUTION READERS!

THIS IS TO INFORM & WARN YOU THAT MY ORIGINAL WRITING AS ON THIS BLOG HAS BEEN INAPPROPRIATELY REPRESENTED IN PINAKI RAY"S NOTES ON FACEBOOK. THIS IS A VIOLATION OF FACEBOOK APPLICATIONS AS WELL AS THE GOOGLE COPYRIGHT ACT. PLEASE DO NOT BE MISLED INTO THINKING THAT THESE THOUGHTS ARE SOMEBODY ELSE'S, JUST BECAUSE THEY APPEAR ON HIS/HER FACEBOOK ACCOUNT AND HE/SHE CHOOSES TO KEEP SILENT INSTEAD OF CLARIFYING AND WALKS AWAY WITH UNDESERVED CREDIT!
MANY THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT
WARM REGARDS
ANANYA

My Pind, Amrika

Happy Singh Sandhu was born in a small Pind called Ajitwal in the Moga district of Punjab, one of the richest states of the Indian Sub Continent. Born in a family of landlords, and never having to pay or work for anything material, Happy Singh grew up in the ultimate luxury of relaxation and idleness that most others can only enviously crave for! And if it were not for his Bade Papaji in “Kaneda” (the less informed may spell it thus as Canada) and his Maasiji in South Hall, London, who sponsored all his DKNYs and unconditionally added to his annually refurbished collection of latest punk accessories, you could have never thought Happy Singh was a Punjabi munda from the Pind! Our Punjab da puttar Happy Singh, in his scarlet red polo tees and flashy silvers riding on his sleek Yamaha through the mustard fields in the land of seven rivers was nothing less than a Bollywood idol, our very own mascot of the Bhangra Pop generation.  

When Happy Singh flunked for the third time in his school leaving examination, unlike any one else, he had a wide range of choices in front of him. He could join the family business of transports and look after the acres of rice and mustard fields at once and eventually marry a girl with a huge dowry. A Toyota was still missing from his fleet of cars and a lavish wedding would definitely come with a “phoren” honeymoon package (complete with his very own “Kodak moment”, with Happy Singh flexing his triceps in a body hugging tee and his coy newly-wed bride in a spaghetti top and the traditional red and white chuura on Pattaya beach).  

His other alternative was a ticket to Vancouver, to help his uncle in the mill business and become a “mill”ionnaire in some years. His prospects as a groom were only expected to be enhanced if he had a phoren-returned tag, almost like the export-quality Basmati rice that his fields were famous for. On the other hand, he could join his hyper active Maasiji’s Tandoori restaurant and bar in London, and sell Butter Chicken or Chicken Tikka Curry with an extra dash of authentic spices, or make a cocktail in the air a la’  mango lassi style (with the malaai) straight from the heartlands of Punjab.

However, when Happy Singh shunned all the proposed ideas of being supervised by an extended family in a foreign land, and still wanted to fly free to “Amrika” wanting nothing less than the Big Apple on his travel cards, there was much chaos at home. His patriarchal Daddyji accused his mother for having spoilt him with her laad/pyaar beyond cure and denied him access to the world outside the Kothi premises. Under house arrest, Happy Singh’s unhappiness knew no bounds. His frustration, bolstered by the constant pampering of his doting family of affectionate adults, finally resulted in the unthinkable act.

One night, much to the dismay of his aristocratic bloodline, he broke into his Daddyji’s brass embossed “tijori” and paid an obscene amount of money to an agent in the next town to get him a passport, visa and ticket, and a prospective job in the US of A. To be in “Amrika”, you need to break free from the shackles of the patriarch. My journey starts now, he convinced himself with the first lesson.   

Now Happy Singh’s agent turned out to be a fraud. Soon after landing in the JFK airport, he realised, the man had only arranged for his passage and nothing else. He had little money and no job. After spending a whole day at the arrival lounge with only a bite of a chicken burger and coke, and no one to turn to, Happy Singh understood that he had been cheated and dumped. He felt lonely, depressed and lost in the big bad world.

However, the world was still not without its silver linings. A chance conversation with a taxi driver who happened to be originally from the neighbouring Pind got him food and shelter for sometime in downtown Manhattan. For someone who wouldn’t eat a single meal without “kukkar” (chicken), aloo ka parantha with a simple daal makhani never tasted so good before. Disillusioned, Happy Singh started taking driving lessons from the kind-hearted Samaritan, and began working night shifts as a taxi driver. In the mornings, he joined a New York City hospital as a cleaner—things, he could have never imagined he would have to do in his lifetime. Too egoistical to admit his mistakes and ashamed of the choices he had foolishly made, he had little to write home about. Yes, he was in the city of his dreams, but living in a proverbial nightmare. From glitzy DKNYs, his lifestyle changed to the boring uniforms he wore at the hospital and as a cabbie. It was not just a metamorphosis of a human persona, but also a brave example of man’s ability to adapt and adjust to a different and difficult life.     

And it was in one of those days that he met Sohrab Suri’s youngest daughter Pinky. She was a second generation American Indian confused desi kid who had grown up in the street lives of Manhattan. Sohrab Suri ran the little departmental store at the end of the road next to the gas station where Happy Singh lived. Street smart, extrovert and sexily clothed in cheap funky outfits, in her shocking pink lipstick and black nail enamels, high-ankle boots and copper- dyed permed hair, Pinky was the perfect icon of modern Amrika to Happy Singh’s naive eyes. “Just like a star from the pages of the Stardust” he had told one of his fellow Indian taxi driver friends. If only he could catch her eyes someday and take her out on a date to a cafe, just like the Amrikans did, life would perhaps be a little more meaningful. His Bangladeshi friend who worked in a Queens restaurant had even offered him the choicest Indian meal, should Pinky ever agree. Would she like coffee or just like the phirang mems would Pinky drink beer from a can, frothing at the mouth and making seductive advances at him?  Many a nights, driving past the rich and the famous, dropping passengers off at Times Square or Fifth Avenue, Happy Singh imagined what Pinky would wear on their first date, how she would sit with her legs crossed on the co-driver seat and whistle away with the Bhangra Pop booming from his taxi stereo. If only she would give him a glance....

And all this while, Happy Singh never noticed Kanwaljit Kaur, Sohrab Suri’s dependent and orphaned niece from the neighbouring district of Ferozpur. Kanwal’s parents were killed in a terrorist attack along the border town when she was barely ten. Sohrab Suri took pity on his elder brother’s innocent little girl and against the wishes of his vocal wife Manpreet and daughter Pinky, he brought her to New York. That was about 10 years back. While Sohrab Suri tried his best to cater for the physical needs of the quiet sober girl that Kanwal grew up to be, her emotional needs were of little or no priority in the Suri household. Manpreet, the loud mouthed wife of Sohrab Suri treated Kanwal more as a domestic help than a dependent relative. Pinky had hated the thought of having to share her room with an uncouth abandoned Indian kid who had walked into her home and life several years ago. Since then, she could never really accept Kanwal as anything beyond an extra baggage her father had picked on in an emotional trip. In short, Kanwal grew up with everything around her but nothing for herself, in a world where her smiles and tears went unnoticed amidst the piles of household chores and her endlessly busy hours at the store in the afternoons when her uncle took a noonday siesta after his staple meal of rajma-chawal everyday.

One Friday night, unexpected as it was, Pinky flagged Happy Singh down for a lift. In her scanty clothes and loud make-up, cheap leather boots and purple wig, she looked nothing less than a Coney Island chorus girl, thought Happy Singh. “Hop in,” Happy Singh said with a smile and an American accent he had mastered over time.

“Monkey Bar, Madison Avenue,” she said blowing a puff of smoke as she stubbed her cigarette and boarded Happy Singh’s cabbie. Can she really afford such a high-end bar, he wondered! Where did she get that kind of money from, he thought but said nothing. Pinky was constantly talking to someone on the cell phone, yelling, swearing, haggling over rates and speaking in an incomprehensible lingo as Happy Singh drove her through the weekend packed streets of high life and higher living. By the end of the trip, from whatever little of America he understood, Happy Singh could conclude with ease that Pinky was not a “good girl” as they said of women who were out to bring dishonour to their families, in his Pind. For reasons unknown, he felt cheated, heart-broken and disillusioned yet again that the lady of his American life’s dreams turned out to be a cheap whore. The synthetic American dream had hit him hard on his face yet again just as he was beginning to learn the ropes. Pinky, oblivious to the whole story, had however nothing to do with his conservative reservations for her life. She paid the taxi bills, continued with chewing a gum, blew a bubble and left Happy Singh mourning silently on the pavements of Madison Avenue.    

For the first time in his stay in NYC, he decided not to complete his night shift and wanted to go home, to his little ten by ten pad, his little den of solace and comfort.  On his solitary drive back, he stopped by the gas station and saw the store was still open. He walked in and picked up a carton of beer cans and decided to drown his sorrows and pain that night in alcohol. That was the first time he noticed the shy, reserved beautiful Kanwal quietly stacking up the last few Bollywood magazines on the shelf. In her pale white lakhnavi salwar suit, moss green bandhej dupatta, the green and white glass bangles on her wheatish arms, the silver jhumka with an emerald dot teasingly jingling at the earlobe, her neatly braided long hair, she looked like a forgotten dream from his happy past. Kanwal probably had not noticed the look in Happy Singh’s eyes, for she continued with her work, eyes down and with the divine placidity of a lotus on her face.

Happy Singh walked home with the box of beer cans and drank all night, sitting on the little cubicle of a balcony at his door, living between flashes of reality, moments of fallen hopes and dying dreams, clutching on to the remnants of positivism and striving, falling, failing and rising yet again, all through the night.

A light shower woke him up from his sleep early the next morning and he found himself draped in a thick blanket, still lying on the balcony with the empty cans all around him. The azure blue Manhattan sky appeared bluer than before, and almost like a flashback from his days back in the gold harvest of his fields in Punjab, he thought he heard birds tweeter. A cuckoo in NYC, that too at this hour? Happy Singh smiled to himself and wondered why this morning felt different!

He rubbed his eyes and started to stand up on his feet when something fell off his blanket....it was a silver jhumka with an emerald dot.

The Bong Connection

Correct me if I am wrong, but the world to me is primarily divided into two categories of homosapiens—the Bongs (Amra Bangali) and the non-Bongs (Obangali). Ask a Bengali who wasn’t raised in Bengal and he’ll almost immediately give you innumerous accounts of how even he has often been singled out, tagged with a “probashi” status in his own league and reminded that his culture is perhaps “slightly different” from those raised on the soils of Bengal. To the “Amra Bangali” confederation, much as you may beg to differ, you are either a Bong or an alien (oh yes, you may not have a fluorescent green glowing face and two little antenna, but then who cares?). Marxist or Martian..the choice is clear!

That leaves us all with the question—who is a True Blue Bong? The wise men would claim, “One who thinks before the world does.” To which, I would love to humbly add, “…and reacts after everyone else does”. Jokes apart, given the benefit of our intellectual progression, the quintessential Bong is always ahead of his times; he rightfully deserves every bit of the quiet and respite (lyaadh in the campus lingo) that follows once the issue has moved from the mind to execution. He’s an intellectual, you see. His job is to perceive before anyone else. The lesser mortals can then follow up and do the rest. You can go struggle for the Victoria Cross. The Bong with a capital B (and I mean underlined and in shining neons!) is happy to keep his Nobel and Oscar. You don’t believe me? Find me a rickshaw puller who earns less than $5 a day and spends a cent watching a Ray film or reads the newspaper in any other race, and I’ll give you my right arm (Well….that I may have the latent potentials to be ambidextrous is another story we can discuss some other time!).

Undoubtedly, the nectar of our intellectualism seeps deep into our bone marrows and we find its manifestations at rather odd places. Ask a typically “probashi” and he’ll agree. “What do you mean by pujo pujo feel, neel akashe shona shona roddur? It’s just a bright September morning and it’s not raining!” You don’t agree to such “nirosh” weather updates, do you? I certainly do not.

By now, you probably know what I am rambling about and perhaps can identify with a chunk of it too. Simply put, we find great meanings in little things in life and the NASDAQ or gung-ho about an economic downturn doesn’t quite bother us as long as we have one good book to read, one cup of Darjeeling tea every morning, the refrigerator stacked with cleaned and salted maach and mishti, one “must see/must hear” theatre, concert or movie ticket in our pockets and an eight-hour sleep on our own beds. Trust me, ladies and gentleman, no one else in the world happily chooses jhaal muuri and phuchka over any other delectable snack, no one else plans a lavish vacation every year no matter how crunchy the pockets are (we call it deshe phera or bari jawa), nowhere else in the world do people have a hint of what a nirbhejal adda with a slice of gaan, khawadawa, alochona on politics, films, literature, art and topped with harmless PNPCs, could mean. Talk about high altitude, and you'll see a Bong draped in mufflers and monkey cap drinking tea from his flask on the Alps; take a dive deep into the underwaters of Malaysia and you can't miss the shankha pola on your scuba diving partner's thin arms; up in the air on a parachute in Bali...and be sure you can hear someone parasailing by crooning "Emni korei jaaye jodi din jaakna"... the over enthusiastic Bong is everywhere, at least in his dreams.

We select “dokra” and “dosta” over gold and diamonds; we think glittering sequins are passé, dig into our grandmother’s closets and create a rage in design with the simplest of embroidery and call it “kantha”, we prefer ilish to caviar, our homes have at least one terracotta piece, and “Purano shei diner kotha” is our national anthem, whether we are in Singapore, Chicago or Timbuktu. No matter what the color of our passport is, we are… always and everywhere Bongs first!

To that Bong cement that binds us (spirally sometimes) with Krishnakoli, Kaash Phool and Kolkata beyond time, geographies, and societies…..

With love, laughter and sunshine for a wonderful Debipokkhyo,

Ananya

In Quest For Freedom

There was darkness all over. The wind whispered through the whining willows and the trembling eucalyptus trees. The road lay empty, barren and unpromising like a widow. The moon opened her moisture laden eyes, batted an eyelid and a drop of the ethereal spirit fell on the grass.

My story dates back to a night in the pre-independence era, in the remote Chhindwara district of Madhya Pradesh. Dr Makhan Lal Chaudhury, my maternal great grand father was unable to sleep. In just another few hours, as the morning sun paved its way slicing through the anesthesia of the night, death of another innocent would stealthily creep into the jail quarters. Another brave heart nipped in the bud, another wailing mother, another young girl widowed, another infant orphaned, another spirited patriot to be hanged till death! What disturbed Dr Chaudhury was not the death alone, but the fact that he, a devoted Indian himself was a part of this ruthless killing of innocence and party to a sin, no less heinous than a crime. Dr Chaudhury was the jail doctor. It was his responsibility to see that the prisoner was medically fit for execution. In nights like these, he felt like a traitor!

A soft spoken man himself whose heart bled for others, his job seemed to him akin to a butcher’s! This was not a part of the Hippocratic Oath that he had taken, while graduating from the Medical College in Patna. He had pledged like all others, to save man and serve humanity to the best of his abilities. But now his job, under the colonial rule, demanded that he played this undesired role.Dr Chaudhury’s thoughts wandered from his own experiences with the young prisoners. Some of them were just boys. And none of them were wrong!

This knowledge and its realization perhaps hurt him most. He thought of their names, which he had personally taken an interest to find out, beyond their identities as numbers! A few of them had told him about their homes, their families and even their dreams; some of which would remain unfulfilled after their deaths. Suddenly, he felt guilty of knowing a dying man’s last wish and ashamed of his inability to fulfill it. During the routine medical inspections, he had tried his best to provide the best of services possible under those conditions. He had even made tireless efforts to ensure that the living environment in the cells were more hygienic.Now, he felt happy that he could make life a bit more comfortable for the boys who were facing trial and imprisonment and even death.

An alarm cracked in through the silence of the night! It was time to be up. He left his bed silently walking like a man in a stupor, tightened his jaws and wore his khaki uniform. Quietly, he tiptoed into the Puja Room and said a silent prayer! The jeep was in his driveway and the Gorkha driver in khaki shorts saluted him. No one said a word. Without even exchanging a glance, they drove into the high walled jail quarters.

It was thirty minutes past four when the prisoners were brought for their final medical check up. They were four in all and were in their early twenties. The pundit was reciting lines from the Bhagwat Gita. His deep throated voice echoed in the stillness of the dawn. He was chanting out lines from the divine message of Lord Krishna, and saying that the body of a man was akin to a piece of clothing. When one wore off, the soul tailored itself into another and lived on!

To Dr Chaudhury, it sounded more like a slow, planned and deliberate preparation for death.As the four young boys marched to face the final sentence, they walked like warriors, with their heads held high and their faces gleaming with a strange glow. The radiance on their countenance began to make Dr. Chaudhury nervous. So young, yet so brave! Just as the first rays of dawn sieved in through the dingy cells, Time stopped for a moment! He closed his eyes and said a last prayer, hoping that the souls rested in peace.

With an iron heart and a heavy conscience, Dr Chaudhury trot back to his dreary office chamber. He had another work to finish. The four death certificates had to be signed and sealed with the government stamp. The memory of the four boys came back to him. Their radiant faces that shone like victors even as they faced the dreaded last sentence haunted his mind leaving him with a pang of guilt. It overwhelmed his soul and a numb-ness overcame his body. And at that instant, Dr Chaudhury made a decision!He took out another white sheet of paper and wrote his letter of resignation.

Dr Chaudhury decided to walk back to his bungalow. He left the walled jail campus with a free and happy conscience. The sun was out in its full glory, streaking a crimson luminescent halo against an azure blue eastern sky over the Satpura Ranges, paving way for a new day and a new beginning.

To my great grand father and to the true patriot in his heart,
Yours in pride,
Ananya