NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental.
Camelia lighted the tenth cigarette of the day and exhaled richly onto the darkness.
Outside, the vast expanse of familiar landscape, the black and white of the divine Himalaya, seen countless times, but never experienced, seemed impenetrable.
What a relief! She felt like bales of cotton bobbing up and out of some abyss on the unexpected occasion; like soap-bubbles in the air; dewdrops on a wild flower; so free and fresh yet so profound; the sweet aftertaste of it all lingered on her mind. She felt like kissing the air as she gazed at the star-studded sky; the swarming phosphorescence that looks so transient, almost hallucinatory; she saw the veiled moon hiding behind the swift cloud and the meteor rising, falling; she kept staring, standing on the terrace of their hotel until Fatima said, “You have finished an entire pack of cigarettes! First vice of your life, baby. Try the others. Trust me; you would never need a man.” For indeed this escapade to Pelling with Fatima and three other childhood friends has elevated her to a different height; taken her mind off her search for a man; her failed attempts at several matrimonial sites for six long years; numerous rejections; scowls of her father; indifference of friends. How strange is life and how wonderful! - Around the vicious circle and off it.
A truck roared by, invading the silence. In the midst of waking and dreaming, Camelia sensed strength, confidence; certain recklessness; an urge to enclose the elusive reality in a time-warp and stay suspended in her own zone. As she rolled another marijuana joint, she heard moan, hot-breath and whispers of the lovers in the room right beneath the terrace. She stiffened a little, sharpened her senses to be part of the whirling sensation of pleasure, the numbing sounds of lust and love, which rasped her body deliciously. Here she was still untainted, she thought while the rest of the world seemed to be spinning on love. A plain Jane with an Adonis, Camelia thought of the lover-girl; a sluggish, sloth creature, plump and short, with freckles on her face; she was around thirty and spoke English with a thick vernacular accent.
For having spent a better part of her years in Delhi, being part of the elite journalism circuit, now she was aware of her charms; a touch of the bird about her, vitality, intelligence that people could kill for. Yet the love clock of all effectual men seemed to only tick for plain Janes. As the owl of Minerva lurked in its nest, she watched life go by from her perch in Delhi; feeling a violent grudge against the world which had scorned her, sneered at her, cast her off. She suffered greatly as she saw love blossoming in her flat-mate- Neera’s life; the twinkle in her eyes, the triumph and jingle in her voice, the intensity in her moments. For heaven only knows, why good things only happen to less-deserving people; the most dejected of miseries are bestowed on souls like her who have always been honest, good and fair.
It was not that love did not come to her door; it came in different hues and forms; wrapped in soft mesh of the early morning air; which as the day wore on, merged with the eternity. “You are my soul-mate. I wish I could marry you,” she remembered the words of Glenn, a fellow journalist. Her heart went out to him, felt attached to him, yet she never found him strong enough to be her husband; he remained a fleeting sensation in her life. Now that they are parted for years, he never cared to write her a letter; some days, some sights bring him back calmly; without the old bitterness; especially those spring evenings in Delhi, that she liked the most.
For it was the month of March, one of the best months in Delhi. The sun seemed to swirl in a mild, caring way and exuded that divine vitality which Camelia loved. The spring of the year breathed life into the very year and adorned the trees with young leaves; life seemed to be full of immense possibilities. It was also the time when her switch from financial sphere of journalism to general seemed a coming-out-of-the-box experience, a connection with the wider world. Yet her heart did not beat for the newness in the air or the state of the nation. Did it matter then, she asked herself, did it matter how clever or accomplished she was if it did not help her get a suitable man? She wallowed more and more in self pity. For Neera was quite happy with her new-found lover-boy- perfectly happy, though she has never taken a single risk in life or had she chosen a noble profession; her whole life appeared to be a failure. And it made Camelia angry still.
It was not that Camelia had any feeling of superiority over others or any sense of being out-of-the-ordinary. She was like a sharp-edged knife with the ability to slice through every being. She could understand people almost by instinct. Forgiving friends easily was not in her nature as she had high expectations from them. She had ill-feelings towards her friends who were so imbued in their lives that they could now barely squeeze out time for her. She resented the fact that now she was the last priority for people she always stood by through thick and thin. For people really move on in big cities, in the ebb and flow of life, somewhere they get consumed by their own passions and needs- and only some pilgrim souls like her strike out alone; their blessed beings wait eternally for a touch of warmth.
“Good things happen to good people. Do not worry. You just have to be more open to the world and look around,” said Fatima, rather lovingly, for they had known each other since childhood.
As she stood on the terrace of their hotel, in the lap of the Himalaya, she mused, plunged into the heart of the moment; trying to collect the whole of herself- for this very moment was the truth for her, far removed from the constant bickerings of her parents for her marriage, whispers of jealousies of her relatives, pressures to prove her worth in the world. The dazzling, snowy inclines of the mountain peak transfixed her yet she could not feel any holy presence.
How many million times she had felt Him always with the same radiancy in her dull life! How often in her childhood days, as she lay by the side of her little brother; the discordant noise of fights, abuses of her parents would wake her up in the middle of the night. She would purse her lips and look at herself in the mirror- the self that was strong and good; pillar of strength for her family. She rose to her that self with some effort; always trying to be a good child to her parents, good sister to her brother; remaining forever so calm and composed, not giving into any vices, never showing her inner demons- faults, jealousies, vanity, suspicions.
Then wasn’t law of karma all balderdash, she thought, as she breathed in the earthy fragrance and wanted to lose herself in the moment, on this beautiful April evening in Pelling, with her friends, owning up to her vices.
ENDS
Meghna Maiti
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Spiritual Guru
Here was Paradise. Muriel could sense the call of the unknown, and the aura of holiness in the dark abyss. She could feel the swish of an ancient snake along the silent wheat field; the splash of sea-gulls encircling a pellucid lake. Her tranquil eyes spotted a blessed soul guiding her to the path of enlightenment. Anxiety waned; eyes shone; spirit was wafted along by the breeze.
The setting sun stole her gaze. She kept staring at the horizon until it blended into darkness. Twilight etched a frame around her careless tresses. Her soul took a flight with the birds, soared higher and higher.
“You have beautiful, sparkling eyes!” Younis said. For the first time since they had sat at the terrace of Vincent’s house, she flashed her smile at Younis. Returning an assured smile, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the floor.
How did twenty-year old, college-going girl Muriel land up with a stranger from Iran? How could an innocent visage reveal the battered soul within- the sudden plunge into a relationship with her classmate- Jean, the disastrous outcome of it?
She was burdened with the discordant nature of her body and soul. When she arrived at Vincent’s place needing empathetic ears for few hours before waking up to harsh daybreak, she felt puny with the baggages of the past. At one of her weakest moments, she had not thought twice about relying on her wise, erudite college-friend- Vincent.
Muriel would seek solace in Vincent’s company for a while. It was necessary to share her unhappiness given the inner turmoil that left her with sleepless nights. How could anyone otherwise guess that her nights were now spent sitting by Jean’s photos?
Sitting on the balcony of Vincent’s house, she saw the brightness of the noon and made up her mind. Within moments Vincent was deluged with tales of her love, fights and heart-break. He had resumed his intense look throughout, oblivious to everything else; as if he read her mind perfectly and saw through her desires.
Within days of joining college Vincent had become well known for his erudition and charming manners- the stuff the intelligentsias are made of. The professors would discuss issues with him outside classroom, as would the cute girls. He could quote Derrida, Foucault, Freud with élan and he would spend his off-hours staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts. One isn’t a thinker unless one is lost. Impressed, Muriel shared her lost self with him.
In distress she needed a friend- one who would show her the right path and yet not get judgmental. In Vincent, she had found both, along with the fact that he did not know her lover Jean.
She told Vincent about the brief romance with Jean in the heady days of Paris and their escapades to the mysterious hills and bohemian shacks. Every day she would wait to be in his arms or simply hear his voice- telling him to convince his flat-mates and call her over to his house. For days, the small apartment took the centre stage to the story of Muriel and Jean. The apartment waited for the lovers to return; the bed held its breath as they made passionate love; the nights spun one yarn after another.
Even now she could recall every word Jean had ever spoken to her. She could see his grey eyes and lanky frame- receding hairline and sharp facial profile. The taste of his body still lingered on her tongue and the earthy smell. He had bought French perfume for her body and silver anklets from the shop of ‘love & senses’ at Montparnasse road. Under the star-spangled sky, he had vowed to become her husband and promised to have their children as they held hands and strolled along the snow-covered pine trees.
Paris winter had turned the love-birds homebound creatures. They kept at home, romanced yet disagreed on a lot of issues related to their attitude towards life. Initially, the fights that started like tinkling of glasses turned into yells leading to over-turning tables and chairs around. “You are a selfish person and you are incapable of going beyond yourself to care for others.” Jean would tell her. Muriel had grown tired of the constant comparisons drawn with Jean’s ex-lover, Carla. For the longest time the thought of Carla, her romantic involvement with Jean, made her miserable. She was tormented by her own sense of possessiveness for Jean that burdened her ‘being’ immensely.
“Ahh! I see. You were like a wet nurse to him,” Vincent said in a contemplative tone.
Muriel felt too weak to reply. “Calm down. You must meet Younis.” He was Vincent’s flat-mate from Iran.
Vincent described how his Iranian mate had changed his life for good. Association with Younis was the turning point in his life, the daily influences of which culminated into a larger journey. How else to account for the phase, during the bitter winter of the earlier year, when he salvaged his de-fragmented self? The exercise demanded a lot of himself; returning to the core of every issue and getting connected with the cosmic universe. It meant staring at the millions of stars floating below him; feeling the early morning avalanche floating down his spine. “Like taking you to the edge of the cliff and expect you to plunge in. And you should not be scared because you will slowly feel the lightness. Younis will hold your hand and guide you through the journey of enlightenment.” Vincent finished his epic tale of the spiritual guru; the late afternoon shaft of light illuminated all that was jaded and dead.
Muriel woke with a start as she made a move towards the terrace, darting her eyes to spot him in the dazzling glow of sun, fixing her frightened gaze on her soul. He struck her as an alien with his stately gaze, arched eyebrows. Without a word exchanged between the two, they seemed to know each other. Only the creaking door reminded her of her plight, swaying gently in the breeze as she sat opposite to him.
“It’s a tough journey which could leave you completely drained,” Younis had said after a moment’s silence. “It would mean completely adhering to what I say. A kind of submission of your self to seek enlightenment.” She resumed her intent look as he said how she would have to disentangle from her friends and relations for a few months. The entire journey would require a certain re-orchestration of life- to be uncluttered in thoughts and actions. This would mean donating all that she earned by free-lancing with the national newspapers to charity. “At times, your life might seem completely frozen,” he had said. She did not want to lose her will and ignore her chance of spiritual fulfillment. What if it really showed her the path to independence and bliss?
Following the spiritual guru, Muriel had stepped into the guru’s room to spend the evening with him. She had abided by his instruction to spend time with him discussing her life and miseries. The initial advice to spend an entire evening and night was not possible for obvious reasons. On their way to his room, she saw Vincent in the living room and shot a friendly glance at him. He returned a sheepish grin and continued watching television.
Now alone with her in the room and asking her to share her anxiety, he switched off the brass lamp. She woke with a start, spotted the nervous rat hiding behind the dressing-unit, as a cat growled on the balcony sensing its prey. Younis lit a cigarette as she furnished details about her ‘affair’.
“Now, I have to set a slightly difficult task for you. You need to completely extricate yourself from your past, worries of future and be in unison with me,” Younis said in a nonchalant manner. Her subdued expression reflected a naïve submission. Yet she could not fully comprehend the meaning of his words. “I need to understand a woman’s instinct to be able to guide her through a life-changing journey. This requires the unison of two souls and bodies.”
The trial was indeed draining her strength, she heard herself pleading. I cannot make love with you……… How could she do this with anyone but her lover? She saw his firm expression, unable to fathom his mind in the darkness. Only physical involvement, not necessarily love-making- She heard him whisper over and over- could show her the light.
There was a sudden lull in the air. It made the noise of the rat even more pronounced. She had risen from her perch as if in a trance. Through the haze of outside lights, Yunis saw the naked body of a woman. Only a slight frown played on the foreboding calm on her face. She felt his breath, his hand on the nape of her neck. She looked into the eyes of the spiritual guru and for a moment her eyes went blank.
She rose to consciousness before anything could happen. She’d made up her mind and felt that it was too big a price to pay for her unearthly pursuit. While slipping into her dress, she could hear the spiritual guru chuckle. There was a moment’s silence, and then he said in a low voice- “It’s your call. Do not speak about this to anyone outside. People will think you to be crazy!” A shaft of light from outside illuminated the ‘laughing buddha’ in the room as she stormed out of the room- the rat disappeared into a dark hole.
Meghna Maiti
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The setting sun stole her gaze. She kept staring at the horizon until it blended into darkness. Twilight etched a frame around her careless tresses. Her soul took a flight with the birds, soared higher and higher.
“You have beautiful, sparkling eyes!” Younis said. For the first time since they had sat at the terrace of Vincent’s house, she flashed her smile at Younis. Returning an assured smile, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the floor.
How did twenty-year old, college-going girl Muriel land up with a stranger from Iran? How could an innocent visage reveal the battered soul within- the sudden plunge into a relationship with her classmate- Jean, the disastrous outcome of it?
She was burdened with the discordant nature of her body and soul. When she arrived at Vincent’s place needing empathetic ears for few hours before waking up to harsh daybreak, she felt puny with the baggages of the past. At one of her weakest moments, she had not thought twice about relying on her wise, erudite college-friend- Vincent.
Muriel would seek solace in Vincent’s company for a while. It was necessary to share her unhappiness given the inner turmoil that left her with sleepless nights. How could anyone otherwise guess that her nights were now spent sitting by Jean’s photos?
Sitting on the balcony of Vincent’s house, she saw the brightness of the noon and made up her mind. Within moments Vincent was deluged with tales of her love, fights and heart-break. He had resumed his intense look throughout, oblivious to everything else; as if he read her mind perfectly and saw through her desires.
Within days of joining college Vincent had become well known for his erudition and charming manners- the stuff the intelligentsias are made of. The professors would discuss issues with him outside classroom, as would the cute girls. He could quote Derrida, Foucault, Freud with élan and he would spend his off-hours staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts. One isn’t a thinker unless one is lost. Impressed, Muriel shared her lost self with him.
In distress she needed a friend- one who would show her the right path and yet not get judgmental. In Vincent, she had found both, along with the fact that he did not know her lover Jean.
She told Vincent about the brief romance with Jean in the heady days of Paris and their escapades to the mysterious hills and bohemian shacks. Every day she would wait to be in his arms or simply hear his voice- telling him to convince his flat-mates and call her over to his house. For days, the small apartment took the centre stage to the story of Muriel and Jean. The apartment waited for the lovers to return; the bed held its breath as they made passionate love; the nights spun one yarn after another.
Even now she could recall every word Jean had ever spoken to her. She could see his grey eyes and lanky frame- receding hairline and sharp facial profile. The taste of his body still lingered on her tongue and the earthy smell. He had bought French perfume for her body and silver anklets from the shop of ‘love & senses’ at Montparnasse road. Under the star-spangled sky, he had vowed to become her husband and promised to have their children as they held hands and strolled along the snow-covered pine trees.
Paris winter had turned the love-birds homebound creatures. They kept at home, romanced yet disagreed on a lot of issues related to their attitude towards life. Initially, the fights that started like tinkling of glasses turned into yells leading to over-turning tables and chairs around. “You are a selfish person and you are incapable of going beyond yourself to care for others.” Jean would tell her. Muriel had grown tired of the constant comparisons drawn with Jean’s ex-lover, Carla. For the longest time the thought of Carla, her romantic involvement with Jean, made her miserable. She was tormented by her own sense of possessiveness for Jean that burdened her ‘being’ immensely.
“Ahh! I see. You were like a wet nurse to him,” Vincent said in a contemplative tone.
Muriel felt too weak to reply. “Calm down. You must meet Younis.” He was Vincent’s flat-mate from Iran.
Vincent described how his Iranian mate had changed his life for good. Association with Younis was the turning point in his life, the daily influences of which culminated into a larger journey. How else to account for the phase, during the bitter winter of the earlier year, when he salvaged his de-fragmented self? The exercise demanded a lot of himself; returning to the core of every issue and getting connected with the cosmic universe. It meant staring at the millions of stars floating below him; feeling the early morning avalanche floating down his spine. “Like taking you to the edge of the cliff and expect you to plunge in. And you should not be scared because you will slowly feel the lightness. Younis will hold your hand and guide you through the journey of enlightenment.” Vincent finished his epic tale of the spiritual guru; the late afternoon shaft of light illuminated all that was jaded and dead.
Muriel woke with a start as she made a move towards the terrace, darting her eyes to spot him in the dazzling glow of sun, fixing her frightened gaze on her soul. He struck her as an alien with his stately gaze, arched eyebrows. Without a word exchanged between the two, they seemed to know each other. Only the creaking door reminded her of her plight, swaying gently in the breeze as she sat opposite to him.
“It’s a tough journey which could leave you completely drained,” Younis had said after a moment’s silence. “It would mean completely adhering to what I say. A kind of submission of your self to seek enlightenment.” She resumed her intent look as he said how she would have to disentangle from her friends and relations for a few months. The entire journey would require a certain re-orchestration of life- to be uncluttered in thoughts and actions. This would mean donating all that she earned by free-lancing with the national newspapers to charity. “At times, your life might seem completely frozen,” he had said. She did not want to lose her will and ignore her chance of spiritual fulfillment. What if it really showed her the path to independence and bliss?
Following the spiritual guru, Muriel had stepped into the guru’s room to spend the evening with him. She had abided by his instruction to spend time with him discussing her life and miseries. The initial advice to spend an entire evening and night was not possible for obvious reasons. On their way to his room, she saw Vincent in the living room and shot a friendly glance at him. He returned a sheepish grin and continued watching television.
Now alone with her in the room and asking her to share her anxiety, he switched off the brass lamp. She woke with a start, spotted the nervous rat hiding behind the dressing-unit, as a cat growled on the balcony sensing its prey. Younis lit a cigarette as she furnished details about her ‘affair’.
“Now, I have to set a slightly difficult task for you. You need to completely extricate yourself from your past, worries of future and be in unison with me,” Younis said in a nonchalant manner. Her subdued expression reflected a naïve submission. Yet she could not fully comprehend the meaning of his words. “I need to understand a woman’s instinct to be able to guide her through a life-changing journey. This requires the unison of two souls and bodies.”
The trial was indeed draining her strength, she heard herself pleading. I cannot make love with you……… How could she do this with anyone but her lover? She saw his firm expression, unable to fathom his mind in the darkness. Only physical involvement, not necessarily love-making- She heard him whisper over and over- could show her the light.
There was a sudden lull in the air. It made the noise of the rat even more pronounced. She had risen from her perch as if in a trance. Through the haze of outside lights, Yunis saw the naked body of a woman. Only a slight frown played on the foreboding calm on her face. She felt his breath, his hand on the nape of her neck. She looked into the eyes of the spiritual guru and for a moment her eyes went blank.
She rose to consciousness before anything could happen. She’d made up her mind and felt that it was too big a price to pay for her unearthly pursuit. While slipping into her dress, she could hear the spiritual guru chuckle. There was a moment’s silence, and then he said in a low voice- “It’s your call. Do not speak about this to anyone outside. People will think you to be crazy!” A shaft of light from outside illuminated the ‘laughing buddha’ in the room as she stormed out of the room- the rat disappeared into a dark hole.
Meghna Maiti
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, January 23, 2012
I have seen light in your dark embraces
I have seen light in your dark embraces
Like a churchyard in the silent abyss
A flash of illumination that cuts night
I have seen the immensity in your arms
Like a forlorn sailor from an unknown sea
The fading kite that cheers azure sky
The darkness pulls in everything into a vortex
And spreads something more than happiness.
Meghna Maiti
Like a churchyard in the silent abyss
A flash of illumination that cuts night
I have seen the immensity in your arms
Like a forlorn sailor from an unknown sea
The fading kite that cheers azure sky
The darkness pulls in everything into a vortex
And spreads something more than happiness.
Meghna Maiti
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The Missing Link
Something woke Mariam up in the middle of the night. After the initial befuddlement of senses, her eyes slowly got accustomed to the darkness. She clenched her fist and turned to the man beside her; felt a bitter taste in her mouth. The signs of their sexual intimacy were spread grotesquely on the sheet. The rough, chiselled features that used to make David look much younger than her now made him look like a pervert: his face devil-like and dead.
Did he not resemble those unfeeling, dead, hollow men in her dreams? A number of hollow men came lumbering in, tried to capture her in the trappings of vicious sexual seduction. One of those dead creatures attempted to feel her fair bosom, and the sensation was so agreeable that even after waking up she pondered over it for a while.
The pleasure quotient of her nightmare was so high that she wanted to retreat into it once again. And with it she was firm in her resolution to obliterate a chunk of her life: Derek, their association of five years, shared apartment, shared minds and bodies. What compelled her decision, she thought, was the increasing sense of boredom and different aspirations.
The harsh, wintry chill air of November seemed to freeze the existence of daily life. The city of Paris looked pristine and elegant as one spotted a bunch of fashionably-attired women, snow-covered landscape dotted with green foliage, wooden houses. The wayside cafes were crowded than usual with romantic, hapless souls warming up with coffee, cheese and easy fag.
Mariam was taking in the essence of the early morning sights and sounds in slow sips of her steaming tea, looking out the window of her Parisian apartment. The quotidian extravagances of daily life would soon occupy her day as she would get busy cooking her lunch, washing the dishes and clothes, dust the shelves and then immerse herself into her pursuit of writing.
Her moment of peace was broken by the clamour of the telephone. “Hello, this is Jerry this side.” Mariam answered the long-awaited call from the renowned “Shark Publishing House” with a bit of excitement coupled with apprehension, “Yes, Jerry. Here’s Mariam. How are you doing?” “Hey, I’m doing fine. Hope you too. I just wanted to let you know that at this point of time, it would be a little difficult to accommodate you in our organisation.”
Mariam enquired in a diffident tone followed by a minute of silence, “Any specific reason for it?”
“No, it’s just that, economic uncertainty has squeezed us too. We are trying to manage with whatever resources we had.”
Mariam sighed and hung up. This is the tenth rejection over a span of one year since she quit her profession as a journalist. Her literary ambitions along with a career in publishing house snaking a labyrinthine path seemed to be plummeting into the abysmal darkness.
On her way to the kitchen she stopped by the mirror. The reflection of the woman was meek, solicitous, a bit embarrassed; yet distant, smug and spiteful. As she was carefully cleaning the lamb pieces, taking care to remove every strand of hair, there was yet another call. But this time her face shone with a frivolous tint. “Hello, yes Monsieur Jean-Paul, what plans today?”
“Hello, honey. How the day goes? What you doing?”
“Nothing much. Cooking lamb for lunch.”
“Sounds delicious. Why don’t you invite me over at your place?”
“Of-course. You can come home, darling. I am a little depressed. Shark Publishing House did not take me in.”
“Oh-ho!! Never mind. You are the best and the smartest. Do not worry. Let’s see. I will talk to my friend in the publishing house. And we will talk about it at home over wine and cheese.”
Mariam’s association with Jean-Paul was not even a year-old yet she felt better with him than her any other lovers. Despite his effeminate, subtle, porky frame, Jean with his seniority by almost fifteen years and wisdom provided her the much-needed anchorage.
“I cannot waste any time. I have to write and look for a job,” Mariam said to herself as she scrutinised the dampness and shabbiness of her apartment and dwindling resources. This would mean making another call to her poor, old father in another part of the country to get by the next month. And the thought made her tense, edgy and so deeply dug into her dark mood.
The sentences that she wrote in the new, white exercise book came across as forced, fake and amateurish. Deeply disturbed, she tried to write the same phrase again, in the hope that she could rectify what she had penned the first time around; could manage to express very little.
The night brought with it its myriad colours. This time, Mariam was in a cab, which stopped before a tranquil lake. She asked the driver to wait and crossed the pellucid water on a wooden boat which after a point got stuck before a stormy, turbulent ocean. There was a small wooden bridge over the ocean which when people tried to cross, slipped into the sea but came out unscathed. She was hesitant: whether to cross or not. Her eyes opened to early morning light before making any decision.
She could sense in the calm lake the security of her earlier life as a journalist with a national daily. Yet she had almost lost a part of herself in that soulless job, hence decided to take a plunge and prove her worth as a writer. She liked to play the part of a voyeur avid to steal glimpses into people’s lives and minds. She remembered with fondness the words of Daniel, her senior in college, “There’s a writer in you. You have very innovative thoughts, a different and interesting way of looking at things.” Mariam found Daniel, now a hot-shot editor with a reputed daily, interesting and cute; yet she was not ready for him or anyone.
Mariam! Mariam! David held her tight as she trembled in his arms. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.” She half-opened her eyes, clasped David’s hand and refused to believe that her dream was not true. Somewhere, in her life, the line between reality and fantasy had blurred. She even imagined David, who is now only her occasional bed-partner, to be a character out of her dream.
He raised himself a little and tried to touch her lips. “Get real, girl” She said, “David, I am really scared. Do I have it in me to be a writer?”
“You are wonderful. But somewhere along the way you have lost the ability to give love to anyone or anything. You can only take love. You have to learn to give love to create anything of significance.”
Mariam stayed quiet and looked at the wall. In the darkness, the bedside lamp painted the silhouette of a leviathan out of her puny frame.
Meghna Maiti
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Did he not resemble those unfeeling, dead, hollow men in her dreams? A number of hollow men came lumbering in, tried to capture her in the trappings of vicious sexual seduction. One of those dead creatures attempted to feel her fair bosom, and the sensation was so agreeable that even after waking up she pondered over it for a while.
The pleasure quotient of her nightmare was so high that she wanted to retreat into it once again. And with it she was firm in her resolution to obliterate a chunk of her life: Derek, their association of five years, shared apartment, shared minds and bodies. What compelled her decision, she thought, was the increasing sense of boredom and different aspirations.
The harsh, wintry chill air of November seemed to freeze the existence of daily life. The city of Paris looked pristine and elegant as one spotted a bunch of fashionably-attired women, snow-covered landscape dotted with green foliage, wooden houses. The wayside cafes were crowded than usual with romantic, hapless souls warming up with coffee, cheese and easy fag.
Mariam was taking in the essence of the early morning sights and sounds in slow sips of her steaming tea, looking out the window of her Parisian apartment. The quotidian extravagances of daily life would soon occupy her day as she would get busy cooking her lunch, washing the dishes and clothes, dust the shelves and then immerse herself into her pursuit of writing.
Her moment of peace was broken by the clamour of the telephone. “Hello, this is Jerry this side.” Mariam answered the long-awaited call from the renowned “Shark Publishing House” with a bit of excitement coupled with apprehension, “Yes, Jerry. Here’s Mariam. How are you doing?” “Hey, I’m doing fine. Hope you too. I just wanted to let you know that at this point of time, it would be a little difficult to accommodate you in our organisation.”
Mariam enquired in a diffident tone followed by a minute of silence, “Any specific reason for it?”
“No, it’s just that, economic uncertainty has squeezed us too. We are trying to manage with whatever resources we had.”
Mariam sighed and hung up. This is the tenth rejection over a span of one year since she quit her profession as a journalist. Her literary ambitions along with a career in publishing house snaking a labyrinthine path seemed to be plummeting into the abysmal darkness.
On her way to the kitchen she stopped by the mirror. The reflection of the woman was meek, solicitous, a bit embarrassed; yet distant, smug and spiteful. As she was carefully cleaning the lamb pieces, taking care to remove every strand of hair, there was yet another call. But this time her face shone with a frivolous tint. “Hello, yes Monsieur Jean-Paul, what plans today?”
“Hello, honey. How the day goes? What you doing?”
“Nothing much. Cooking lamb for lunch.”
“Sounds delicious. Why don’t you invite me over at your place?”
“Of-course. You can come home, darling. I am a little depressed. Shark Publishing House did not take me in.”
“Oh-ho!! Never mind. You are the best and the smartest. Do not worry. Let’s see. I will talk to my friend in the publishing house. And we will talk about it at home over wine and cheese.”
Mariam’s association with Jean-Paul was not even a year-old yet she felt better with him than her any other lovers. Despite his effeminate, subtle, porky frame, Jean with his seniority by almost fifteen years and wisdom provided her the much-needed anchorage.
“I cannot waste any time. I have to write and look for a job,” Mariam said to herself as she scrutinised the dampness and shabbiness of her apartment and dwindling resources. This would mean making another call to her poor, old father in another part of the country to get by the next month. And the thought made her tense, edgy and so deeply dug into her dark mood.
The sentences that she wrote in the new, white exercise book came across as forced, fake and amateurish. Deeply disturbed, she tried to write the same phrase again, in the hope that she could rectify what she had penned the first time around; could manage to express very little.
The night brought with it its myriad colours. This time, Mariam was in a cab, which stopped before a tranquil lake. She asked the driver to wait and crossed the pellucid water on a wooden boat which after a point got stuck before a stormy, turbulent ocean. There was a small wooden bridge over the ocean which when people tried to cross, slipped into the sea but came out unscathed. She was hesitant: whether to cross or not. Her eyes opened to early morning light before making any decision.
She could sense in the calm lake the security of her earlier life as a journalist with a national daily. Yet she had almost lost a part of herself in that soulless job, hence decided to take a plunge and prove her worth as a writer. She liked to play the part of a voyeur avid to steal glimpses into people’s lives and minds. She remembered with fondness the words of Daniel, her senior in college, “There’s a writer in you. You have very innovative thoughts, a different and interesting way of looking at things.” Mariam found Daniel, now a hot-shot editor with a reputed daily, interesting and cute; yet she was not ready for him or anyone.
Mariam! Mariam! David held her tight as she trembled in his arms. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.” She half-opened her eyes, clasped David’s hand and refused to believe that her dream was not true. Somewhere, in her life, the line between reality and fantasy had blurred. She even imagined David, who is now only her occasional bed-partner, to be a character out of her dream.
He raised himself a little and tried to touch her lips. “Get real, girl” She said, “David, I am really scared. Do I have it in me to be a writer?”
“You are wonderful. But somewhere along the way you have lost the ability to give love to anyone or anything. You can only take love. You have to learn to give love to create anything of significance.”
Mariam stayed quiet and looked at the wall. In the darkness, the bedside lamp painted the silhouette of a leviathan out of her puny frame.
Meghna Maiti
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, September 11, 2011
I Yearn To Run Away
I yearn to run away
From the whispers of half-naked lies
From the myriad fake images of happiness
And the young world's obsessive cry
Growing more terrible as the day;
I yearn to run away
From the green eyes, trampled souls,
And the dead malls, thunder of notes,
For the streets are blackened by dead men.
I yearn to run away but I'm afraid;
Some truth, yet unexplored, might haunt
Out of the old lies buried in the mind,
Popping from dark recesses, leave me half-blind.
Eyes who show me fear,
Of lonely life, faith wriggling on a spire,
Fingers that will point at me with accusing glances,
And do I dare to leave all to chances
Or in the palms of soiled hands.
Written by Meghna Maiti
From the whispers of half-naked lies
From the myriad fake images of happiness
And the young world's obsessive cry
Growing more terrible as the day;
I yearn to run away
From the green eyes, trampled souls,
And the dead malls, thunder of notes,
For the streets are blackened by dead men.
I yearn to run away but I'm afraid;
Some truth, yet unexplored, might haunt
Out of the old lies buried in the mind,
Popping from dark recesses, leave me half-blind.
Eyes who show me fear,
Of lonely life, faith wriggling on a spire,
Fingers that will point at me with accusing glances,
And do I dare to leave all to chances
Or in the palms of soiled hands.
Written by Meghna Maiti
Monday, September 5, 2011
Chinny Arasu
Chinny Arasu, the ‘booze’ correspondent at “The Miracle Times” newspaper, even at the age of fifty walked around the town like a little Johnny sporting his “I am the original macho man” tagged tee-shirt and considered the world to be a goldmine of sexual opportunity. When he said ‘look at me’ people would spot a peasant’s face from south of the Nilgiris, complexion borrowed from the coal mines, alcohol-heavy crimson eyes that almost bulged out of a pair of darting pupils. The hair that god left him was sparse, dry and vertical as if it would soon wither without constant watering. Chinny was small in height and the exact shape of his body was difficult to determine because of his ‘macho’ness.
When I saw him last he had the same half smile on his face, a spark that had greeted me to Press Club, blabbering about the beautiful species called ‘girls’ and clearing his voice for frequent bursts of humming romantic malayalam tunes. He was finally prepared to tie the knot to get imprisoned for life with a powerful woman from the ministry. “Now people will be extremely jealous of my elevated status and power,” he had said.
I could not help but feel happy about Chinny’s good fortune, a second marriage after almost a span of a decade, a mother for his son ‘Unni’ whom he had reared so far.
Chinny had been extraordinarily exuberant about his wedding. Perhaps he was pleased about his victory over the women. Whatever the extent of his self-inflicted frailty, I had never seen him as good-tempered as he had been recently, or as nervously loquacious.
A merciless, scorching sun was at its brightest the day I started work in Chennai bureau of “The Miracle Times”. The heat was unbearable, people preferred staying indoors and waited for the evening sea-breeze to douse the summer’s fire.
Right out of college, I found office to be a sudden leap from frying pan to fire. Slowly I became conscious of the eyes that measured you with formulated phrases, the hierarchy, competition, favouritism and the pre-fixed formula for success. My refuge from this soulless world was occasional conversations with Chinny.
“You know, I really want to be on TV and make a mark as a television reporter,” Chinny had told me with innocent enthusiasm. Even with bristles sticking out of his badly shaved face, blemishes on his skin, he looked so dreamy. I patted him and said, “You’ll make it there. Do not worry.”
“I also like the girls on television. The other day some of them had come to our office and they all looked so ravishing and smart. Will you give me Rajdeep Sardesai’s number?”
We lived in rebellious and unconventional times after all. Chinny would start his day with a sip of whiskey and as the day proceeded he graduated to other brands and labels. He was indeed drinking life to the lees, following the quest of Tennyson’s Ullysses.
“So, you two are big mates now,” one office colleague hissed at me once. She spotted us heading to the Press Club for lunch.
People perhaps entertained minor reservations about Chinny as they were delighted by him and laughed at everything he said even when it was serious. Once, Chinny accompanied by two senior editors of the paper were waiting at the lounge bar of a five star hotel before the commencement of a conference. As the bartender was waiting to take order, Chinny blurted out the name of the most expensive French wine to be served to him. The incident put the other two editors in an embarrasing position, one among them had to rush to the bartender to cancel the order.
Chinny initiated his career at the ‘Journal For The People’. Once the chief editor of the journal told him after an altercation, “I will show you the door now.”
Chinny immediately looked back and said, “I can see the door”.
Exasperated Editor said nothing, but dismay, confusion and anger passed over his face. He glanced down at Chinny’s duff hand and extended his hand saying, “Ok, we can part ways now.”
“Oh, Ok. Are you leaving?” retorted Chinny.
Despite the porky little frame, compared to everyone else in the office he was life itself, vibrant, irreverant and funny. He was an astute and seasoned reporter and an excellent fiction writer which he had once read out to me, intended it to be published some day.
After the passing away of a few summers, winters and the other vagaries of nature I wanted to meet Chinny again. He had not changed a wee bit on the outside, was excited to see me, enquired about me and my life.
“So, how’s married life treating you, Chinny?”
“Oh, it’s okk.”
He was buoyant today but also tenser and a little pensive. It was as if he had made up his mind about something yet he was not sure if it was the right thing to do.
“You know, my maid sways her hips and smiles at me while sweeping and swabbing the floor. She’s attracted to me.”
“What??” I exclaimed.
“Yes, she’s been trying to seduce me. I feel totally raped and I am not liking it!”
Meghna Maiti
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When I saw him last he had the same half smile on his face, a spark that had greeted me to Press Club, blabbering about the beautiful species called ‘girls’ and clearing his voice for frequent bursts of humming romantic malayalam tunes. He was finally prepared to tie the knot to get imprisoned for life with a powerful woman from the ministry. “Now people will be extremely jealous of my elevated status and power,” he had said.
I could not help but feel happy about Chinny’s good fortune, a second marriage after almost a span of a decade, a mother for his son ‘Unni’ whom he had reared so far.
Chinny had been extraordinarily exuberant about his wedding. Perhaps he was pleased about his victory over the women. Whatever the extent of his self-inflicted frailty, I had never seen him as good-tempered as he had been recently, or as nervously loquacious.
A merciless, scorching sun was at its brightest the day I started work in Chennai bureau of “The Miracle Times”. The heat was unbearable, people preferred staying indoors and waited for the evening sea-breeze to douse the summer’s fire.
Right out of college, I found office to be a sudden leap from frying pan to fire. Slowly I became conscious of the eyes that measured you with formulated phrases, the hierarchy, competition, favouritism and the pre-fixed formula for success. My refuge from this soulless world was occasional conversations with Chinny.
“You know, I really want to be on TV and make a mark as a television reporter,” Chinny had told me with innocent enthusiasm. Even with bristles sticking out of his badly shaved face, blemishes on his skin, he looked so dreamy. I patted him and said, “You’ll make it there. Do not worry.”
“I also like the girls on television. The other day some of them had come to our office and they all looked so ravishing and smart. Will you give me Rajdeep Sardesai’s number?”
We lived in rebellious and unconventional times after all. Chinny would start his day with a sip of whiskey and as the day proceeded he graduated to other brands and labels. He was indeed drinking life to the lees, following the quest of Tennyson’s Ullysses.
“So, you two are big mates now,” one office colleague hissed at me once. She spotted us heading to the Press Club for lunch.
People perhaps entertained minor reservations about Chinny as they were delighted by him and laughed at everything he said even when it was serious. Once, Chinny accompanied by two senior editors of the paper were waiting at the lounge bar of a five star hotel before the commencement of a conference. As the bartender was waiting to take order, Chinny blurted out the name of the most expensive French wine to be served to him. The incident put the other two editors in an embarrasing position, one among them had to rush to the bartender to cancel the order.
Chinny initiated his career at the ‘Journal For The People’. Once the chief editor of the journal told him after an altercation, “I will show you the door now.”
Chinny immediately looked back and said, “I can see the door”.
Exasperated Editor said nothing, but dismay, confusion and anger passed over his face. He glanced down at Chinny’s duff hand and extended his hand saying, “Ok, we can part ways now.”
“Oh, Ok. Are you leaving?” retorted Chinny.
Despite the porky little frame, compared to everyone else in the office he was life itself, vibrant, irreverant and funny. He was an astute and seasoned reporter and an excellent fiction writer which he had once read out to me, intended it to be published some day.
After the passing away of a few summers, winters and the other vagaries of nature I wanted to meet Chinny again. He had not changed a wee bit on the outside, was excited to see me, enquired about me and my life.
“So, how’s married life treating you, Chinny?”
“Oh, it’s okk.”
He was buoyant today but also tenser and a little pensive. It was as if he had made up his mind about something yet he was not sure if it was the right thing to do.
“You know, my maid sways her hips and smiles at me while sweeping and swabbing the floor. She’s attracted to me.”
“What??” I exclaimed.
“Yes, she’s been trying to seduce me. I feel totally raped and I am not liking it!”
Meghna Maiti
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Beatles Cafe
No one had imagined Suzanne, a free-spirited journalist would submit herself to marriage without an affair or long romance. The honeymoon was a bigger news. Her near and dear ones had expected Larry, a corporate high-flier to take her on a cruise to Venice, to Switzerland perhaps, given that she was a die-hard romantic.
The couple settled for the not-so-obvious place- Mahabalipuram- a god-forsaken hamlet in South India. “Perhaps the place will help us connect at a spiritual level. It will be one of its kind,” Larry winked as he looked at Suzanne with a mischiveous grin.
On flight to Chennai, connections were made for the first time at some levels. Leaving the German territory forty thousand feet below, they entered that tranquility of blue sky and bales of cotton-like clouds, free at last of the sudden panic caused by the turbulence. After a long conversation related to their friends, family, childhood dream, Suzanne sensed his quick breath. Then the inevitable followed marking the beginning of married life with cheek touching cheek, his arm around her tiny frame. Suzanne was holding tightly the man she barely knew, with whom she was going to spend an entire lifetime.
As she settled into her one-bedroom modest accomodation at ‘Bharat Guest House’- she was struck by the unequal treatment meted out to the Indians and the foreigners. Larry had chosen this hotel instead of a fancy resort to live like real Indians in India.
The honeymoon was as it should be, with the couple locked in their room almost the entire day. They only went out during sundown, walked on quiet and dusty roads to the beach. The deep blue sea slowly turning crimson with the glow of the setting sun beckoned them. The smell of fish and chips led them to the shacks by the sea.
The shacks in Mahabalipuram are named after the great musicians- Bob Marley, Santana, Beatles. They liked Beatles café the most. The café had its tables lit by conch-shell lights, sand filled its floor, it overlooked the deep blue sea. The place was frequented by people of all nationalities- Swedes, English, Germans, Japanese, Americans, Africans. As Suzanne and Larry quietly missed friends, they struck up friendship with the other tourists. The sweet pleasantries, exchange of ideas, heated arguments sometimes went on till late into the night on the rooftop of Beatles café. As people of different colours, creed, nationalities spoke, shared their joints, made merry, the sea and the adjoining area were filled with full moon’s surge of silver.
The routine was broken by Krishna, the young owner of Beatles café. “He can speak English. He is willing to take us around the village,” Larry said in a cheerful tone.
On their first day of sightseeing, as Suzanne marvelled at the rock-cut temple, the sculptures of hindu god and goddesses, she nudged Krishna, “So, you are also a hindu avataar, right?” A shy and reticent Krishna did not reply, just smiled and nodded. Suzanne could not help but notice his sculpted, handsome face, tall body and dark complexion.
Arriving at the Pallavas temple, they wore straw hats, sunglasses and posed for photos as Krishna gingerly went and stood beside Suzanne. Halfway into the beach that was ravaged by tsunami, Suzanne declared that she was hungry.
At the Beatles café, Suzanne enquired about Krishna’s life, whether he had a girlfriend, his family. He was from the fisherman’s clan, his house in the slum right behind the café. Here everyone was the same- living in the same place, doing the same job for a living. He wrote poems when he wasn’t at the café. Life was easier for their lot until the attack of the wretched tsunami.
Before long, Krishna became their good friend. They liked his shy glances, naïve outlook towards life, loving nature. Larry quized him over Karunanidhi, DMK, Jailalitha. “Who do you think will win in the next election, Amma or………” Suzanne could sense the tense look on Krishna’s face, clumsy reply….Suzanne would butt in and stop the questions.
One day the sky turned pitch black, rain and dust swirled over the buildings, the beach turned narrower with the high tide. Suzanne and Larrry were sipping tea in Beatles café and they were taking in the essence of nature with slow drags of mariuana. A crimson spread of light of the lantern changed their countenance. They caught Krishna penning poems on rain. “Why don’t you read out your poetry to us,” Larry insisted. Krishna’s small but firm voice read out a series of beautiful poetry on the fury of nature. Suzanne listened to it, enthralled. Larry was effusive with his praises. Krishna looked into Suzanne’s eyes for few moments, felt a sense of joy and fulfilment that he had never felt before.
Days were turning out to be increasingly exciting and enlightning, nights tedious and exhausting with the forced love-making. Sometimes, Suzanne wanted to get up in the middle of the night and shut herself in the bathroom. In her dreams she saw a dark, sculpted face, attractive sinews, simple gestures, broken English………
Suzanne gave a sigh of relief the day Larry did not accompany them on a temple trip. Larry was bored of the temples, he wanted to take a swim in the sea. Suzanne was touring the village with Krishna. Krishna insisted on a trip to the Shiva temple- “It’s a very holy temple and it is beautiful. You can also buy small stone replica of it from outside the temple for your friends back home.”
After a walk around the shrines, they entered a dimly lit cave of Shiva. They were the only two devotees present there. As Krishna joined his palm to god, his eyes shut, Suzanne stood beside him and felt her heart racing at the highest possible speed. On an impulse, she hugged him and put her lips on his. He was as if jolted out of a reverie, felt shocked at the sudden advances, but reciprocated. Within five minutes, she released herself from his grasp and went out into the daylight.
Suzanne rose early on the day they were leaving for home. She wanted to catch a glimpse of Beatles café. In the afternoon, they were all set to bid adieu to Mahabalipuram. “Please keep in touch. You have our phone number. Thanks to you, we had a great time,” Larry told Krishna with a beaming face. A small crowd was singing “You are beautiful” nearby, foreign tourists were shopping for clothes and jewellery from roadside stalls, beggars nudging the visitors, shutters clicked.
As the cab with luggages and the honeymoon couple whizzed past, Suzanne waved at Krishna with an assured smile replete with promises and desires of the young hearts.
Meghna Maiti
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The couple settled for the not-so-obvious place- Mahabalipuram- a god-forsaken hamlet in South India. “Perhaps the place will help us connect at a spiritual level. It will be one of its kind,” Larry winked as he looked at Suzanne with a mischiveous grin.
On flight to Chennai, connections were made for the first time at some levels. Leaving the German territory forty thousand feet below, they entered that tranquility of blue sky and bales of cotton-like clouds, free at last of the sudden panic caused by the turbulence. After a long conversation related to their friends, family, childhood dream, Suzanne sensed his quick breath. Then the inevitable followed marking the beginning of married life with cheek touching cheek, his arm around her tiny frame. Suzanne was holding tightly the man she barely knew, with whom she was going to spend an entire lifetime.
As she settled into her one-bedroom modest accomodation at ‘Bharat Guest House’- she was struck by the unequal treatment meted out to the Indians and the foreigners. Larry had chosen this hotel instead of a fancy resort to live like real Indians in India.
The honeymoon was as it should be, with the couple locked in their room almost the entire day. They only went out during sundown, walked on quiet and dusty roads to the beach. The deep blue sea slowly turning crimson with the glow of the setting sun beckoned them. The smell of fish and chips led them to the shacks by the sea.
The shacks in Mahabalipuram are named after the great musicians- Bob Marley, Santana, Beatles. They liked Beatles café the most. The café had its tables lit by conch-shell lights, sand filled its floor, it overlooked the deep blue sea. The place was frequented by people of all nationalities- Swedes, English, Germans, Japanese, Americans, Africans. As Suzanne and Larry quietly missed friends, they struck up friendship with the other tourists. The sweet pleasantries, exchange of ideas, heated arguments sometimes went on till late into the night on the rooftop of Beatles café. As people of different colours, creed, nationalities spoke, shared their joints, made merry, the sea and the adjoining area were filled with full moon’s surge of silver.
The routine was broken by Krishna, the young owner of Beatles café. “He can speak English. He is willing to take us around the village,” Larry said in a cheerful tone.
On their first day of sightseeing, as Suzanne marvelled at the rock-cut temple, the sculptures of hindu god and goddesses, she nudged Krishna, “So, you are also a hindu avataar, right?” A shy and reticent Krishna did not reply, just smiled and nodded. Suzanne could not help but notice his sculpted, handsome face, tall body and dark complexion.
Arriving at the Pallavas temple, they wore straw hats, sunglasses and posed for photos as Krishna gingerly went and stood beside Suzanne. Halfway into the beach that was ravaged by tsunami, Suzanne declared that she was hungry.
At the Beatles café, Suzanne enquired about Krishna’s life, whether he had a girlfriend, his family. He was from the fisherman’s clan, his house in the slum right behind the café. Here everyone was the same- living in the same place, doing the same job for a living. He wrote poems when he wasn’t at the café. Life was easier for their lot until the attack of the wretched tsunami.
Before long, Krishna became their good friend. They liked his shy glances, naïve outlook towards life, loving nature. Larry quized him over Karunanidhi, DMK, Jailalitha. “Who do you think will win in the next election, Amma or………” Suzanne could sense the tense look on Krishna’s face, clumsy reply….Suzanne would butt in and stop the questions.
One day the sky turned pitch black, rain and dust swirled over the buildings, the beach turned narrower with the high tide. Suzanne and Larrry were sipping tea in Beatles café and they were taking in the essence of nature with slow drags of mariuana. A crimson spread of light of the lantern changed their countenance. They caught Krishna penning poems on rain. “Why don’t you read out your poetry to us,” Larry insisted. Krishna’s small but firm voice read out a series of beautiful poetry on the fury of nature. Suzanne listened to it, enthralled. Larry was effusive with his praises. Krishna looked into Suzanne’s eyes for few moments, felt a sense of joy and fulfilment that he had never felt before.
Days were turning out to be increasingly exciting and enlightning, nights tedious and exhausting with the forced love-making. Sometimes, Suzanne wanted to get up in the middle of the night and shut herself in the bathroom. In her dreams she saw a dark, sculpted face, attractive sinews, simple gestures, broken English………
Suzanne gave a sigh of relief the day Larry did not accompany them on a temple trip. Larry was bored of the temples, he wanted to take a swim in the sea. Suzanne was touring the village with Krishna. Krishna insisted on a trip to the Shiva temple- “It’s a very holy temple and it is beautiful. You can also buy small stone replica of it from outside the temple for your friends back home.”
After a walk around the shrines, they entered a dimly lit cave of Shiva. They were the only two devotees present there. As Krishna joined his palm to god, his eyes shut, Suzanne stood beside him and felt her heart racing at the highest possible speed. On an impulse, she hugged him and put her lips on his. He was as if jolted out of a reverie, felt shocked at the sudden advances, but reciprocated. Within five minutes, she released herself from his grasp and went out into the daylight.
Suzanne rose early on the day they were leaving for home. She wanted to catch a glimpse of Beatles café. In the afternoon, they were all set to bid adieu to Mahabalipuram. “Please keep in touch. You have our phone number. Thanks to you, we had a great time,” Larry told Krishna with a beaming face. A small crowd was singing “You are beautiful” nearby, foreign tourists were shopping for clothes and jewellery from roadside stalls, beggars nudging the visitors, shutters clicked.
As the cab with luggages and the honeymoon couple whizzed past, Suzanne waved at Krishna with an assured smile replete with promises and desires of the young hearts.
Meghna Maiti
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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