Bishorjon

Amar bari’r baire ke jeno ekta chhatim gachh lagiyechhe. Pujo’r aage aage, gachhe phool dhore. Ar shei phool’er gondhe neshagrosto ami, tomar kotha bhabi. Maa, aajo mone pore tomay. Ami jaani tomra shobai amake bhule thakte chaao. Ami toh shei kobe paliye eshechhi, shob chhere. Maa go, holde sharee pore jokhon tumi bhorbela shiuli phool kurote, ami janla diye chupi chupi dekhtam. Pujo maanei, tomar shathe lukochuri khela. Aar chokhe chokh rekhe’o bhalobasha tuku bojhate pari ni. Chhotto Maa amar, ajo tumi amar lekha chithi buke aagle rekhe, nishshobde kede otho? Tomar mone pore, para’r natoke tumi Hirimba ar ami Bheem. Rehearsal’er shomoy tomar choti lukiye rakhtam shiri’r neeche. Raage, obhimaane jokhon kotha bondho kore dite, bishwash koro, Raja’r haat diye chocolate gulo ami’I kine pathatam. Thakurer bidaay bela, laal sharee te prithibi’r nodee-maath-bhaatful’er cheyeo shundor dyakhato tomaay.

Maa go, ekdin phire ashbo. Narkel naru, patishapta baniye khawabe Maa? Ar jonmodine paayesh? Mone pore, tumi ar ami bikele hete hete bajare jetam. Ami tomar kachhe jed kortam chocolate khawar. Tokhon bujhini Maa, tomar haat’er narkel naru bishwer shobcheye daami chocolate’er thekeo shera. Ar Baba jokhon “Baundule chhele!” bole terey ashto, tumi rukhe darate, barbar. Ami tomar mukh rakhini, Maa. Tobu, Chhatim phool’er gondhe ekadhik bar, tomar hashi hashi mukh’ta mone pore. Tomar amay mone na’i ba thakuk.

Amay bhul bujho naa, Maa. Bohujuuger, bohukaal’er paap bohon kore berachhi ami. Tai toh paliye paliye berai. Lukiye lukiye thaki. Buke bhoy. Keu jodi mukhosh ta khule deye amar. Tar theke tomra amay bhule jaao, Maa. Ami shokol Maa’ke noshto korechhi. Ami shohosro haashi haashi mukhe kanna’r srot boiyechhi. Maa go, amay khoma koro na. Tomar bidaay bela duur thekei dekhbo, Maa, Ganga’r buk’e tumi bheshe bheshe krom’e dhongsho hochho. E bidaay toh tuchho. Hajar bochhor dhore tomay tiley tiley dhongsho korechhi amra. Bhule jeo Maa. Bijoya doshomi’r raatei, shob taa bhule jeo.

A Seaside Holiday

The sea beach was crowded with tourists. Most of them had flocked from a nearby city for a much awaited holiday. You see, all of them had to escape.

              

  The little girl in the red sequined skirt, jumping about in the water, gleefully had to escape from her torturous Mathematics tutor. Who wanted to solve an exercise full of algebra problems, anyway? She wanted to be an actress, like Vidya Balan. The sea knew it. Nobody else did.

Casuarinas grew around the beach. That young couple you saw just now were heading towards the casuarinas. Yes, the boy had spiked hair. And the girl wore bright pink glass bangles. Would you like to follow them? If I were you, I would. But aren’t you the very civil bhadralok?  You wouldn’t disrupt their privacy, would you? You know they would indulge in obscene activities. So I set out to follow them on my own. The boy played a flute. The girl lay on his lap, listening to the tune with wide eyes. The girl was his Radha. The duo was escaping a society of bhadraloks who worshipped Radha-Krishna, alright, but had no respect for their defiant little romance.

I was nobody’s Radha. I had always been too ordinary for that. My bespectacled eyes were not mysteriously kohl laden. Neither did I cuddle stray kittens. I was here to escape my ordinary existence of metro rides and sweaty walks. I was here to surrender to the sea, extraordinarily.

But my story is boring. Do you want to know why the group of elderly women had come to the sea? Oh, so you heard them talk about their rich husbands. Did you know, most of them never returned at nights? That woman you see in a handsomely embroidered blue saree is Sipra Masi. I think she didn’t tell you that the scar on her forehead was not from an accident.

You see that married couple sitting on a boulder near the chai stall? Yes the husband is slightly fat. The wife is drinking coconut water. They both look satisfied and almost happy. It has been twenty five years of a working marriage. They had witnessed each others’ ups and downs. They had also witnessed their daughter run away with a vagabond. The wife silently blamed her husband for not letting their daughter take up literature instead of law. She wrote poetry. She sang folk songs. The father had a deaf ear for them. The mother lacked courage to support them. They were at the sea to escape shredded memories of the daughter they had lost.

The man that sits on the beach with his laptop is not doing his office work. You civil bhadralok, you are highly prejudiced and stereotypical. He hates the corporate world. He is actually making comics. He is on a holiday, far far away from his much hated office.

It was getting dark. The sun had disappeared long back, behind the monsoon clouds. The chai walas were wrapping up their stalls. The fishing boats were returning to the shores. Scattered around the beach were people, silhouetted in their regrets. The tide was setting in. People were breathing, in and out, in a nagging monotony. Tomorrow they would all return to the lives that they wished to escape. The sea saw it all and silently shed seven tears of salty water for seven thousand such regretful lives.

It was 3.35 pm, the next day. The painted little train was full of faces, bleak ones. They were all going back. To the city of brokenness that they had all learnt to tolerate and at times, love. The holiday was over. None of them had escaped.  

The Anniversary

I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. She wasn’t even aware of her surroundings. She stared blankly at the ceiling. I knew she didn’t remember. I could not blame her. Ours wasn’t a happy, lovey-dovey relationship. I wasn’t fair with her and I knew it. But I would have liked to talk about it with her only if she would allow. She had given up talking, long back. That time, I used to go out a lot with Stuti. Stuti was of course more than just an office colleague. She was beautiful. I was sinful. We bonded well. My wife stopped talking, ever since she found out. Now, she wasn’t like this. She talked a lot in her school and college days. She talked all the time. Even when she was in her emo, mute mode, she would come and talk to me. I was always her best friend.  She still is mine.

I walked and stood in front of her armchair to draw her attention. She still didn’t look at me. I adjusted my specs and looked at her properly. She wasn’t staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were closed. She was sleeping, with her face upwards. She did this a lot, lately. Sleeping. When we both retired and had nothing to say to each other, we found our respective, suitable activities. I took to television soaps and telephone calls. My wife chose knitting, reading and sleeping. These days, I found myself watching her a lot, while she slept. She had never been beautiful, in her life. She was small and thin. She had an average nose and big eyes. Yet when she smiled, the eyes lit up like stars. Those who knew her well, couldn’t help but fall in love with her smile. It was so honest, so loving. There wasn’t a hint of pretense in that smile. She didn’t smile anymore. When she slept, I wished for that smile. Why couldn’t she ever have a good dream? That would make her smile in sleep, at least.

Rain fell in a steady monotony, outside. The skin drenched crows had taken shelter in the Swarnachampa tree. Today was a Sunday. My wife used to love rainy Sundays. I loved the gorom chowmein and chilly chiken she made for rainy days. She was a marvelous cook. It came to her naturally. With the most ordinary ingredients, she could cook up the most extraordinary dishes. Stuti couldn’t cook a thing except for Maggi. She always urged me to take her out. It isn’t that I didn’t like going out with her. She was beautiful. I was sinful. We bonded well.

I never believed in commitment. I was open minded and thought that one could fall in love over and over again. I fell in love for seven times, in my entire life. My wife accepted it all, silently. I thought she was weak. I thought that she let me get away because she was dependent on me. Maybe she was. When her sister got to know about Stuti, she asked her to move out, immediately. Her brother-in-law started looking for flats. My wife continued to stay with me. She was like a shadow, back then. I was hardly aware of her existence in the house. She was silent and still most of the time.

The best gift that she ever gave me was a bundle of little hands, feet and an extraordinarily beautiful face. It was my daughter. She had the looks of me and the personality of her mother. She was fifteen when Stuti happened. She lived like a shadow, as well, rarely speaking to me or her mother. Once she completed her graduation, she left the city to pursue her dreams of becoming a journalist. She married and worked hard. She ceased to live like a shadow. I feel grateful that at least my daughter’s life was not ruined by me.

But today was special. I had to talk to her. I knew she would forgive me. She loved me. She depended on me. I was the father of her child. I would cry out loud to her and admit my mistakes. I would beg forgiveness, for my sins. She was a good person. She would grant me a second chance.

I put my hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. She opened her eyes, slowly.

“

Is it lunchtime, already? I should have known,” she muttered to herself
 

“No, Meghna. It is just eleven. I needed to talk to you,” I took her hands. They were cold and stiff. She looked away.

“Meghna. Do you remember what date it is, today?” I asked her, excitedly

No answer.

“Meghna, today is the tenth of July. We got married on this day, fifty years back. Happy anniversary, love,” I squeezed her hands

Meghna didn’t react. She gazed blankly out of the window, her hands as cold as ice.

“I love you. I always have. I always will. I am sorry for the wrong things that I have done. You are my best friend, the mother of my child, the best wife ever. I was wrong, Meghna. I was always wrong. Forgive me?” The last two words came out in squeaks.

Meghna continued to maintain her silence.

I tried to pull her close to me. She was stiff and rigid. She didn’t budge from her chair.

“Please?” I begged.

She sat like a statue, her gaze fixed on the swarnachampa tree. For an instance I considered the fact that Meghna had gone dumb.

“I need to make rice, for lunch,” she said to no one and got up

Adjusting her saree, she slowly walked towards the kitchen. I stared after her, helplessly. She had left me, long back. Only, I was heavily dependent on her. All I could do was sink into the couch, hide my face and cry like a ten year old.

A Ghost Story

The house was haunted. The locals had warned me. Yet I pushed open the creaking gates and entered the front garden. The lush green lawn that once used to be surrounded with gardenia and rose bushes was overgrown. Wild weeds and ivy had crept up and embraced the iron gates. My favourite gulmohar tree where the boy with thick framed glasses had made his tree house stood stark naked with a dead expression. An idle plank of wood somehow managed to dangle from its branches. It was the only remnant of the tree house where I first held hands. I stood on the pebbled path and sighed. A frog leapt near my feet. I felt uncomfortable. I was not fond of reptiles much. I walked towards the house. The house somewhat disappointed me always. It was nothing compared to the beauty of the garden. Today it looked ever more shabby. Cobwebs had replaced the wooden windows. The front door was half broken. The old armchair rested in peace in the balcony corner, waiting to be consumed by termites.The house was dark. Nevertheless, I went in, slowly.

At once there was light everywhere. I was wearing my Mum’s green saree. Golden bangles jingled on my wrists. Today was Jeetu didi’s wedding. I looked out for the boy with glasses. I was wearing the butterfly earrings he had gifted me on my birthday. Where was he, anyway? Groups of aunties in their brightly coloured sequined sarees and heavy ornaments sat, eating pakoras and gossiped in loud voices. Uncles sat in the garden and raged about politics. Kajal Aunty told me that I was looking pretty. But I was not convinced. The boy with specs appeared on the stairway, with his arm loaded with marigold garlands. He paused a little on spotting me. Then he grinned. I was convinced. I really was looking pretty. The groom arrived shortly in an ambassador car. Everyone went out of the house to greet him. That is everyone, except us. We slowly walked to our own home in the gulmohar tree. The boy with specs was smart enough to realize that it would be difficult for me to climb the tree in a saree. He had arranged for a rope ladder. That night as the priest chanted wedding mantras and Jeetu didi exchanged marigold garlands with her husband, we sat huddled together, listening to the rustling of the leaves above. This was where we belonged. The distant wedding lights had cast a fading glow in our home. We sat looking at each other for how long, I’m not sure. And at the moment I knew, that I was married to this boy with thick framed glasses for the rest of my life.

A bird shrieked somewhere. I felt oddly cold. The wind was blowing right through the broken windows. Dusk was beginning to enshroud the house. The wooden plank toppled a little on the gulmohar branch. I looked around. The room was empty and damp. I pulled open the door with all my might and ran. I ran through the pebbled path as fast as my legs could. I crossed the garden and didn’t stop running until I reached the main road. The locals were right. The house was haunted. 

Just Another Scarlett Letter

Dear You,

The train is crowded. I haul my luggage behind me, looking for my seat. I find it at last, in the next compartment. I try to lift the suitcase up. It’s too heavy. Suddenly, I feel a hand taking charge of my suitcase. The hand, is strong and it lifts up the heavy baggage easily. My suitcase goes into the carrier. I smile. You smile back. I fall in love.

Yes, I am a crazy person and I write crazier things. But that’s what I feel all the time. Crazy. That’s what I think all the time. Crazy. The train moves on. I settle down beside you. I start talking, like I always do when I am nervous. I talk about the books I love, the movies I watched over the past few months and the places I visited. I know what you must have been thinking all this while. This girl is CRAZY. And yet you smile all along. And I fall in love every time you smile. This feeling, love, I had never really known it. You look at me. I get lost in your eyes. I can almost see my reflection in them. They are so clear. This time, I smile. You talk. Your voice is deep and beautiful. You talk about your ambition. For once, I listen and I swear I could listen forever. The sun is about to set. It casts a rosy glow all over. The train chugs on. You and I look out of the window. Together. We see a meadow, miles of green stretching to the infinity. I love the scene, as much as I love you.

We have been traveling for a long time now. Yet I feel, there’s so much to know about you. I talk. You smile. I tell you how much I love your smile. You thank me. Dusk enshrouds as the train pierces through the winter evening. The compartment is almost empty now. We are heading towards the final stop. You are dozing beside me. I touch your nose softly. You flinch a little but you do not wake. I trace your eyes with my fingers, then move down to your lips which mesmerize me every time they curve into a smile.

The train stops. I get up. I stand on my toes, trying to get the suitcase down. The thing doesn’t budge. Suddenly you ask me to step aside. I obey. You bring my luggage down. I thank you. You smile. I fall in love. I get down the train. You get down too, after me. I look at you. You hold out your hand. I take it. You shake it firmly and say that you were pleased to meet me. I tell you that I’ll see you around. Then we part. I never see you again. Next week, I fly back to my country keeping miles of land and water between us. Today is 14th February. I love you and I believe, I’ll meet you again, someday, somewhere. If not in person, maybe, in somebody’s smile.

Love,
Me