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

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

Dream! Dream! Dream!

If dreams are an interpretation of our unconscious thoughts, hidden carefully in our sub conscience, have you ever wondered that they can be more honest than truth itself?
They can also be extremely blunt, unmasked, innocent and candid.
Does it not also lead to another fact that dreams do not need to come true, for they are already a part of truth manifested in our sleeping wakefulness?
Dreams are the narration of our latent thoughts, where our conscience plays not just the role of a protagonist but also that of a story teller.

For some, it acts as a wonderful balance between the crudity of real life and the benevolence of fantasy. It is like giving yourself an opportunity to do what you want or another chance to undo an undesired occurrence, the memories of which continue to torment your conscience.
So, in a nutshell, a dream is often a second thought or a second chance!

Somebody told me the other day that there are times when he feels that he controls the sequences of his dreams. “The remote control is often in my own hands” he admitted. Unlike the unprecedented directions of destiny, in dreams you have the freedom and the opportunity to set your targets. Moreover, you lay the rules and pebble the road with your own imagination.

What do you say? Have you had a dream where you felt you were the mastermind who had the power to shift and change the pattern of your thoughts and translate them into sequences of your choice?

Let’s hear it from you today…

Itiraf (Confession)

Usne kaha, “Kabhi fursat mein yeh bhi bataana ki tum kya sochti ho…”

Main raat bhar un alfaazon se bejhijak khelti rahi. Kayi soch apnaye, chand sawaalo se lar pari, kuchh ehsaason se to naraaz hokar zindagi bhar baat na karne ki kasam bhi kha li.

Par ziddi sawaal peecha kahan chorte? Saath chalte gaye, chalte gaye…..chaukathh pe pahuchkar tang aakar maine kaha “Thik hai, khamoshi ki zuban nahin samajhte ho to aaj sun hi lo. Bar bar nahin dahoraoongi..
Subah subah aankh khulte hi ek labz aa jata hai hothon par. Tum sochoge naam hi to hai. Tumhe kya pata ki ab mere liye to yehi nazm hai….
Kabhi khayalo mein kabhi khwabo mein yoon kho jaati hoon jaise mera ab duniya se koi vasta hi nahin. Tum kahoge sirf ek adhura khwab hi to hai. Tumhe kya maloom ki ab mere liye to yehi zindagi hai..
Shaam ke dhalte huye sannate ke saath chupke se kuchh anhahi baatein tumse kahe deti hoon. Tum samjhoge chand shabd hi to hai. Tumhe kya khabar ki mere liye to ab yehi mohabbat hai..”
Daheleez par ek sannata sa chaa gaya. Khamosh khare sawaalo ki taraf maine dabi si muskurahat ko chhupate huye poocha…” Ho gayi tasalli? Par tumhe kya laga, yeh sab main nahin batana chahti thhi?”

Humse na jeeta hai na jeetega koi, woh to hum jaanke khaa lete hain maate aksar…

The Zahir

Mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka, usi ko dekhkar jeete hain, jis qafir pe dam nikle…

My mind is restless today and I cannot write. I’ve taken a few attempts to unleash the strong emotional urge that I feel, but perhaps the intellectual vent that facilitates correct interpretation of sentiments and thereby enables a suitable expression isn’t wide enough to hold the gush. Needless to say, it’s spilling all over.
So if you can forgive my cluttered thoughts and worse still, the spillage of disjointed words and phrases like one in a fit of literary delirium, you may go on reading. By now, I may have tickled your curious instincts enough…oh, no…trust me, I am not trying in the least to follow the bandwagon of a Thursday night television soap from Balaji Telefilms…no flashy reverberations building up on ‘kahani ka aglaa twist’…I am merely trying to gauge the intensity of my propelling idiosyncrasies and sieving the clichéd from the novel. Whether I am successful or not, well…that’s another question!
Ironically, my inspiration is also my reason for confusion at this moment and it is called….love… an untamed force that enslaves me every time I try to imprison it. Does it happen to you as well? Love to me, is the omnipotent dream merchant’s biggest sellout! See how we fall in love, we falter, we fail; we console ourselves with “It must have been love but it’s over now…” only to find a new reason to fall in love and you’ll know exactly what I mean. No amount of heartburn is good enough to stop you or me from buying the next dream. Incorrigible romantics, aren’t we?
Before you start assuming that I have turned into a self-accredited love guru, let me tell you a wee bit more about what’s raiding my thoughts. A good friend of mine authored a paperback called that thing called love some years ago. The book hit the bestseller’s list instantly (am told it’s being translated in other languages and will be made into a film soon) and made him quite a star amongst promising young Indian authors. Am I promoting him? No, I am just trying to lead you to the fact that ‘love’ an emotion that is old as time itself, still manages to creep into our so-called seemingly busier-than-ever-lives and steal the heart and soul, and if I may be allowed to add…pockets away. Love sells; and it sells like politics, sex and glamour. We all know about it, live it, love it or hate it, but we buy it nonetheless.
Yet, do we all really know what we know? As I am looking at this paperback, I tell myself, my bible for this particular emotion, is however not this bestseller. It’s a beautiful compilation of thoughts called The Zahir by Paulo Coelho, my holy grail for life's most beautiful yet most painful experiences, one that leaves me fulfilled yet empty at the same time.
You are your best judge, but this thing called love and its unfamiliarity makes me nervous. It is wild and instinctive, with the rawness instantly reminding me of a bleeding cut, one that stares blatantly at your face and tells you..."Be careful here, it hurts". And I strive to fight against that instinct, strangely though hoping against hope that I won't win, until there comes a point when I allow myself to be vanquished by my overpowering enemy, my unconstrained outburst of bottled up emotions.
This thing called love, I don’t like it at all....it collates all the self contradictory weaknesses and strengths, amalgamates them in an illogical cement, and puts up a self promoting placard akin to a popular ad slogan that says....Dare to dream.
And while my battle for rationale continues, another part of me, the less calculative, less scientific, less scheming alter ego, lounges in the tranquility of this upheaval. Sounds paradoxical? Perhaps! Let me elucidate....it's like being in the eye of the storm, letting the eddies form, lash, whip, bellow around you, while you stay inert, untouched....that eye of the tornado is my love absolute, my obsession with the concept of one, its manifestation in life and its interpretation in you, .....that is my Zahir.
While I might go into another maelstorm of oscillating logic and emotions on another day, right now I'll rather cherish this thought and live happily with the truth thus... ruuh ke bandhan khulte nahin hain, daag hai dilke dhuulte nahin hain..
With and within you...

PS: It's raining again...and you know what? I just knew it would...

Timeless Memory

We connect specific individuals to special pictures in our mind frames. The very thought of a particular person is related to his image in our intellect. The face, the smell, the sensation of that particular touch, the voice of that someone remains etched in our minds.
And memory has no age; it does not grow older with years and the passage of time does not leave a wrinkle on its visage!
As years roll by, walking down those cherished by-lanes of reminiscences, I stumble upon those old images of amassed senses, those warm passionate touches, that glowing countenance, the smell of a half burnt cigarette and the caress of a cold black leather band on a humble white dial HMT watch against my cheeks.
A dark dingy room with old brown curtains and its little holes, through which the first rays of the sun filters in, encompasses my world of memories.
It is a very modest room and speaks reams about its owner. You could write it off as a disorganized and messy bachelor's pad, or if you saw it through my eyes, call it the little heaven of a creator and a poet.
Time has not changed the way I feel about the room, though there have been many significant alterations and amendments in the life of the owner, that now definitely reflect in the modification of its mood and décor! Despite the changes, I see the room as an unpretentious little penthouse of my very private moments and very personal experiences. I still feel that diffident air in the room that smelled of burnt cigarettes and moisture.
Even now, I picture the room in its old image, with half-opened Kafka and Richard Bach, lying on a dusty old mahogany desk, an yellowing letter from an old associate in the drawers, butts of Charminar plain lying in every corner of the tattered rug that was once a red carpet, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd and Traffic booming from an old CD player on a smoky, dusky afternoon., and You!
Starry eyed you, with a thousand dreams in your doe-like almond eyes.
Fiery, passionate you, with that furious Capricorn rage, one that could destroy the world, your relationships and finish you!
Affectionate poetic you, telling me what I looked like when you brought me home from the hospital, three days after I was born.
Creative, talented you, singing "Am I a fighter or a lover?" in my ears.
Romantic doting you, drenched in rains with a rose bud in your hand.
Passionate adorable you, admiring my face in the light of a match stick one midsummer night!
Then I see us!
We sharing a sunset; we reading out pieces from Love Story together; we wishing upon a silver shooting star, we holding hands in a dark theatre watching a gripping Spielberg thriller, we dancing in the terrace on a cold moonlit night to Ian Anderson's magical flute; we hunting for old tattered pieces of wisdom in the pavements of College Street, we cooking up a new recipe out of a stale fish curry; we making love in the rain!
No. I don't see my bruises, don't even feel the pain and don't hear myself sobbing in those long lonely difficult nights when our worlds were falling apart.
Thanks to memory, it has a selective vision.
Memory does not age. Its images do not alter, amend or modify with time and relationship.
Is memory infinite with neither form nor definition? Unbound by time, emotions or space?
To all my memories, its images and metaphors, its senses and emotions,
Eternally yours...


PS: This was written in quiet solitude on a rain swept afternoon more than a decade back, when a speck of wisdom fell out of a leaf of grass and left me moist. Never thought I could make a public display of this misty emotion until someone I was speaking to the other day attested my reasoning and agreed...yes, memory has a selective vision and it is untouched by time! Do you agree?

Gosh....am touched!

Dear onlookers, bystanders and friends,
My! My! Ain't I absolutely bowled by your curiosity, response, support and encouragement?! Much as I always assumed (in a bout of high self esteem..ahem) that my writing wouldn't particularly bore you to death, this overwhelming response to my first posts was simply not anticipated! Am so very grateful to you for having taken time out of your busy schedules on a Friday and giving my page the desired attention.
Thanks so much for all the motivating words and if you know me (as most of you do), I shall try my utmost to keep this page growing (and glowing...in reflected glory)in times to come.
Humbly yours...

Mon khushi emni emni...

Some years back, somebody I knew asked me a rather strange question one day. Well, it wasn’t just the oddity of the query, but the queer manner in which it was both fashioned and presented.My curious friend took the pains of coming up to me, fixing an appointment to ask me the strangest secret of my life. And he asked rather seriously and critically, “I have seen very few people who remain as cheerful at the end of the day as you do. How do you manage to do that?”For a while, I felt both funny and important. Was it so? Did I really do that? Thank God, people hadn’t seen me cribbing and cursing at the car parking, packing off from office and calling names. Thank heavens, I didn’t yell aloud at the coffee boy, for that syrupy mug; thank God, I said “XXXXX” in an undertone when I walked out of a not-so-favorite colleague’s work station. And not to forget the unpardonable forbidden word that sometimes suffices for punctuations marks in my conversations with myself!! Anyway, my interviewer was adamant. He categorically listed the events and days on which, if I were “any other person” I would have blown my top, and insisted that I had managed to be as chirpy and cheerful as ever, even in times of stress!Now, it was my turn to indulge myself in another bout of high self esteem--importance!!Before Piush, my inquisitive friend asked me, I had never really given it a serious thought. Was I generally a happy person? Did I do it involuntarily or did I have to put an effort to remain happy? Well, that particular friend Piush, ran a stress-management consultancy and for him, more than a friendly colleague, I was an interesting case-study!Chewing on a thought, I told him, smiling again, “I think, I do it with a little effort. Every morning, when I wake up, I give myself two choices—either to be happy or be sad. And deliberately each morning, I opt to be happy.”My one-man audience was positively impressed! He even made vague references to the possibility of "Annie" being a reincarnated Zen monk and noted down my words on his scribble pad!When I walked out of his office, I left him with a smile and a thought for myself.Let me share it with you. All these years, I had believed people only noticed tear-stained faces. Never did I once imagine that one day the world would be so stressed and so bogged down playing catch up, waging an endless war against cut-throat competition and running blind on the fast track that a humble cheerful smile could make them sit up and take note!!
How do I manage to glue that smile on my face? Well, from girl to woman, from woman to wife, and graduating to a mother has been an interesting journey, and in hindsight, seems like a happy repertoire of fun-filled events, wherein lie frames of fleeting moments like snapshots of a celluloid dream.I am an emotional fool, they sometimes tell me. Tears are a part of my very own existence. I cry when I am happy and still smiling; weep when I am upset and still ‘trying to smile’, and howl in grief, hoping to smile again. A miserably confused description, which does not agree with my happy disposition! However, fighting it all, I still will perhaps always consider myself to be a very positive person, the kind who chooses to close her eyes to the dirty dark black world and tries to hunt for the moon even in an eclipse!!! Escapist, one might say. My other word for it? Brave!
I strongly emote to the fact that before and after everything, Noah's Ark or Doomsday, life is worth its smiles. And how do I live on that conviction? Let me share my secret with you today.Think with me. You must have often heard people using words such as pure happiness. What exactly does one mean? Unadulterated, pure, doubly refined (doesn't that sound more like sunflower oil????) pleasure??? Is that how one defines happiness? Or does one put himself on a self assumed measuring scale, weigh it and conclude, “okay I am happy...One TON!”!Just like pain, I think pleasure is very personal and has its own undefined measuring tool. Each one of us has a separate and distinctly designed beam balance for weighing our pains and pleasures. Clearly, one set of Vernier Callipers may not be applicable for another! Pain and pleasure have varied standards, depending on individual scales.No common rules can accommodate personal emotions and sense of judgment!With time, I have understood is that everything in life is momentary and ephemeral! All our lives we speculate and chase the most unidentifiable visage of life called "Future", never realizing for a while, that life spans between two fleeting moments, living only between an inspiration and expiration!I also think life’s charm lies in the fact that happiness is such a transient phase and the comfort of pain lives in the truth that it does not last forever! Thank god, nobody ever heard me cursing and cribbing aloud about life and its idiosyncrasies!! Did you? Shhhhhhhh!!!Just happy, without a rhyme or a reason,
Mon khushi…emni emni..

Music, moonlight and moments....

"Can you see the light there?" you ask me, pointing towards the dark sleepy hills dominating the landscape across the sparkling Subarnarekha. The river's at her passionate best, shining like quicksilver on a gorgeous moonlit night. "Do you hear the rumbling of the maadol?" I ask in return. Somewhere hidden in those mysterious shades of green, grey and brown jungles, someone is offering a prayer in a language we cannot comprehend, but whose essence we can both construe—musicIt's well-past dinner time; and on another night when there's a nip in the air, we could be happily tucked in bed, sleeping or talking; or perhaps awake and wrapping up the end of a long day doing little things that make us happy. On another night, at this hour, you could be sitting next to the soft lights of the terracotta lamp (yes, the one with those little bells on its rim…the one we picked up after much bargaining from the Poushh Mela that year when you played for the first time in Santiniketan) leafing through some new music reviews, or humming lines from a very old favorite ghazal…maybe Zafar, maybe Momin…or even Ghalib. On another night, I could be reading excerpts from the latest Man Booker winner rocking on my very coveted black Mahogany grandfather's chair (yes, the same one that I fell in love with at an old antique shop on Russell Street. It cost us a fortune but I wouldn't settle for anything else), or perhaps just scribbling over the last few words of the Telegraph crossword, that I didn't get quite right this morning. But on such an ethereally lit winter night as this one, wrapped up in shawls, we are both happy to be awake and to let our souls drown in what we feel happens rarely, and therefore cannot be missed—the milieu of music, moonlight and mystery. As the apartment lights and halogen lamps switch off one by one, and the whole neighborhood plunges into honeyed slumber, we stay awake, straining our ears to hear and absorb the distant reverberation of a rustic Santhali tune, wondering and seeking the origin of a music so secreted, yet so eloquent, untouched by the periphery of urban life or parameters of "civilized understanding". We stay awake in a trance, relishing the music, the forest fires, while the moon moves slowly and deliberately over the hills like a seductress, enveloping and embracing the entire panorama of our vision in a mystical silver veil. We are at a strange crossroad of feelings tonight…assimilating the beauty of the ambience individually, yet together, in a way. Unlike our usual discourses, we leave nature to initiate and lead all the conversation. After all, even sharing a moment of silence with someone who can read your thoughts can be so beautiful. Tonight, let's celebrate this moment of silence, of music, of mystery, of moonlight, of togetherness, of all the little passions in life that bind us beyond time, space and definitions… tonight, let's just celebrate "US".