Meghna Maiti

The Spiritual Guru

2012-01-30T23:27:00.001-08:00

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!” Yunis said. For the first time since they had sat at the terrace of Vincent’s house, she flashed her smile at Yunis. 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 cacophonies of 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 Yunis.” He was Vincent’s flat-mate from Iran.

Vincent described how his Iranian mate had changed his life for good. Association with Yunis 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. Yunis 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,” Yunis 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 light. She woke with a start, spotted the nervous rat hiding behind the dressing-unit, as a cat growled on the balcony sensing its prey. Yunis 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,” Yunis 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

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I have seen light in your dark embraces

2012-01-23T00:04:00.000-08:00

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

The Missing Link

2011-12-27T06:27:00.000-08:00

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

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I Yearn To Run Away

2011-09-11T23:32:00.001-07:00

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

Chinny Arasu

2011-09-05T03:53:00.000-07:00

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

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Beatles Cafe

2011-08-16T01:51:00.000-07:00

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

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Interlude

2011-08-07T23:50:00.000-07:00

It was seven pm in the evening. The weather-beaten collosal structures in kalaghoda region of Mumbai were looking alive with the intermittent monsoon showers. The aroma of steaks and kebabs wafting through the air was making the homebound office-goers' pace even faster. Hrishi was waiting for Kamalini at the lonely corner of the street, a little removed from the cacophony of life. He lit a cigarette, the excitement in his twenty-five year old heart was palpable.

"Hi honey! Have you been waiting long?" Kamalini enquired in her usual affable, loving tone. Her kind, compassionate, refined expression, energy and enthusiasm in her work, love for life made her look younger than her forty-years of existence. Her battered soul for the loss of her husband did not reflect on her face. Hrishi felt the strong urge to hold her tight and feel her soft lips.

A beautiful maiden is a frequent visitor in the dark recesses of human mind. She is very restless and does not like to reside in any place for long. She sometimes lingers in the chambers of sea, sometimes lurks in the dense, wild forest. She also dwells inside a flaming volcano or atop a snowy mountain peak. She sets the standard of right and wrong and calls herself 'Moral'. This exquisite creature trails the most mundane drawing-rooms, offices and conversations of human-beings.

It is passion that brought Moral to her dwelling at one end of the earth. Her cave dimly lit with an earthen lamp reveals her beautifully painted pots, door-gods on the alter, a garland of jasmine and burning incense, a weighing scale. Draped in a floral attire, Moral sits by the door and gazes at the vast rocky terrain outside, awaiting eagerly for her beloved, August.

For three years in Mumbai, Hrishi had wormed inside his cocoon- the comforts of his first job with its problems and solutions, the weekly trips to his brother and sister-in-law, settling down in a new house with a room-mate, spending time with colleagues, long-distance relationship and its demands. His sister-in-law pulled his leg, called him loner. "Any Tom, Dick and Harry cannot be a loner. You need to be talented to be that," he said.

Despite the solitude and an easy life, he had lost the ability to think. It was as if he was holding his life in his hands and let it flow.

The job at 'Matilda ad agency' was almost like a breather for him. Experience had taught him to face the eyes in office that would fix him with formulated phrase and judge him with his every action. The first brush with his senior Kamalini was in fact quite charming. It was his first day at his workplace and he was going to be evaluated on the basis of an assignment. Hrishi felt flustered, nervous like hell, failed to make head or tail of it.

"What happened Hrishi? You need help? Don't worry, pass me the copy," said a relaxed Kamalini. For the next few months, as he learnt the tricks of the trade, used his creativity to come up with interesting advertising campaigns, ideas, Kamalini always came to his rescue like an angel.

Slowly, Hrishi learnt about Kamalini's husband's sudden demise from other colleagues. Hrishi was struck by her enthusiasm, zest for work, intelligent mind and eccentricity. He started looking up to her and loved her unconditionally. Kamalini too loved him in return.

Kamalini started feeling immeasurably at peace and the world turned wonderful and youthful to her. Her inner desires buried long in dark corners received light.

Yet she did not want to mislead young and passionate soul of Hrishi. Her voice, like a sad, broken tune of a tanpura said, "I am sure you understand my feelings. I love you too. But I really do not have anything to give you apart from my friendship and professional help. I am a widow and at a mature stage in life. I do not want to hurt others in my family and nor in yours. You will always be part of my life and we will be best of friends. I know, you are strong and you can surely move on."

Days passed by, december night came, a slight nip in the air, a slight sensation of being ill at ease. "Finally with a person half your age," said one colleague; "What is the extent of involvement of you guys," said another colleague with a smirk. Its always the wretched lot of women who have to face the music.

Kamalini kept her countenance, remained self-possessed, except when a television, mechanical and tired, reiterated some worn-out, common song or the frangrance of wild flowers across the garden, all whispering the things that other people have desired. And on such days, she asked the divine being whether her ideas are right or wrong.

Kamalini could sense a change in the behavior of her colleagues. On certain occasions, she overheard hushed conversations about them, laughter, gossips, attempts to eavesdrop into her conversations with Hrishi, calling her 'mean, amoral'.

As people were celebrating news of Kamalini's affair, condemning her for not adhering to socially acceptable drawing room rules, on another part of the universe Moral was making love with her August under the starry sky. Her passion and impulse is unparalleled- August looked puny and frail beside her. She is the mistress of all desires. She is in charge of the mind and body of the vulnerable beings of the planet. She is the queen in the hearts of those who live suppressed lives, do not give a vent to their feelings and people who are constrained by the hopes and opinions of others.

Moral changes shape every hour, finds new expressions, dances like a peacock, cries like a mermaid, chatters like an ape and soaks in the essence of life in a tobacco trance.

Meghna Maiti

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Rustom Daruwalla

2011-08-02T01:19:00.000-07:00

It was his innate ability to live in the plane of senses that Kriti liked the most. Cuisines of different cultures, traditions, hues, spices, aroma delighted Rustom Daruwalla. While his natural appreciation of beauty in others were liked by some, it also irked some women on grounds of promiscuity.

In life, as in a work of art, a person's name reveals a lot about his nature. With Daruwalla, unfortunately, his name is the stark contrast of his teetotaller self. Our very own Daruwalla, the seasoned pry with a reputed daily enjoyed crowd, parties and the honeybees but he was allergic to smoke, alcohol and chocolates. Knowing his aversion for the god's nectar, once the chief editor of his newspaper got the bartender to serve him horlicks in a party.

Daruwalla threw tantrum seldom and could easily manage to keep his aggression under wrap. However, on a breezy Monday evening, as all in 'Honest Times' newspaper office buried themselves in their copies, there was an explosion. All shocked colleagues raised their heads to find Daruwalla in a fit of anger, hurling abuses at the person on the other side of his cellular phone.

Five minutes later, all looked at each other with mischiveous smiles and retreated into their copies. Luck had saved the public relation officer with head of cabbage from falling on the chopping board as he committed the hineous crime of getting Daruwalla’s mobile number!

“I do not like people intruding into my personal life. They all can contact on office land-line number,” explained Daruwalla to a puzzled colleague, Kriti when she got curious about the rationale behind his mystery.

Daruwalla almost seemed like God’s answer to chaos. He was almost always particular about his signatures on attendance sheet, filling up outdoor duty forms on time, replying to all emails, even seemingly insignificant ones, answering all calls with the same tone. Watching him in the office was like watching a virtuoso performance. With him in charge, nothing seemed impossible- reporting, writing, editing, giving story ideas to juniors, even nursing the god-forsaken hopeless souls in office.

Clearly, he had a habit of overdoing things. He liked to chew every bit of his food and in the process flex his facial muscles in a manner that attracted eyes. His food was very dear to him as he rarely shared it with others. The way he rinsed his mouth, gurgled and spat into the basin one would be reminded of throwing pebbles into the well.

Six-feet, bearded, pinnochio-nosed Daruwalla would come to office everyday in his high-waist trouser and full-sleeved tailor-made shirt. His feet wore shoes and sandles from Shree-leathers, Kolkata.

Daruwalla did not mind being the butt of ridicule for many as he was very secure and stable with his own self. Beneath the comical persona of Daruwalla, there lurked a clairvoyant, shrewd, business-minded being with a hawk-like mental abilities. Many juniors sought his suggestions and valued his opinions.

Unlike many others, Kriti, way junior than him, found him very interesting. She slowly realized that there were interesting people in the world and then there were those who are just nice. And they can’t always be identical. The interesting people you wanted to be with – their minds were unusual, you saw things freshly with them and all was not deadness and repetition. Kriti longed to know what Daruwalla made of things, what he thought of love, life or marriage.

Kriti sought his opinion. Kriti could sometimes he content when he made her see things in a certain way. He had the ability to look at things from a different angle, he made connections. And then there were the nice people who were not interesting, and Kriti never wanted to know what they thought of anything. They are mostly good, meek and deserved more love. But it was the interesting ones like Daruwalla are lot more fun to be with. The camaraderie, nevertheless, raises many eyebrows but…..well….that’s another story…..another time.

Meghna Maiti

Trek- Kalavanthin

2011-07-06T23:48:00.000-07:00

I spent my last Sunday climbing the Kalavanthin pinnacle with my friend Alima and a gang from Trekophy, a small hiking club. Considering my inexperience in rock-climbing and vertigo, I did not really succeed in keeping pace with the rest of the gang.

I had only lush green nature and solitude open to me, and so that time was the most spiritually elevating experience of my life. I also recall it as the most luminous, as if a lightning flash of extraordinary brightness had stopped at my window to throw light on my destiny inside and out.

I made acquaintances with other trekkers, trudged over the hills all day, stopping only to click photographs. The climb was steep, rough and slippery. The leader did not let us rest till we got to the peak.

The hilly terrain was a sparsely populated area, with one village at the base and the other at a height which served as our second base camp.

The intense exhaustion caused by the humid weather and sun was almost killing. There was a slow draining of strength, a blacking out. What perhaps kept me going was the enthusiasm and the desire to get to the top. So, I passed the endurance test and became happy. We all felt happier with the occasional drizzle.

After reaching a certain point, the way up required climbing huge, vertical rocks through really narrow, slippery path. With horror I watched the others moving up and prayed to the almighty. I clearly felt the attack of vertigo and I could only climb to the top with the help of others. Everyone who helped was like a messiah to me.

I learnt what mental strength was, how one should follow her own instincts without getting influenced by others. I learnt how one should have faith in one's ability and not crumble under pressure. I was nevertheless happy with the fact that I challenged my limits and kind of succeeded in the attempt.

I finally reached Kalavanthin pinnacle. The place was enveloped with cloud. It had hills on all the sides. I was totally enthralled by the view of clouds playing hide and seek with the hills. I completely drowned myself in the hills and pontificated on some of the romantic aspects of life and nature. I felt closer to god.

My calm state was disrupted by a bunch of loud boys, smoking. I was disgusted with the sight of people trying to pollute a place as beautiful as that. As my other gang-members explored further, I chose to stay there and feasted on boiled eggs and sandwiches with nutrella filling.

Descent was way riskier and scary. I would've had stayed there waiting for a rescue team to save me if it had not been for some helpful souls.

After the risky terrain, I walked down slowly, cheerfully with a stick. I completely soaked in the essence of twilight in the hills, gurgling waterfalls, greenery and chirping of birds. Slowly a belief reinforced in me the truth that an eternal power controls our life and make things happen for people only if they pursue it with strength and utmost honesty. I felt some hidden force whispering into my ears- "Spread love and peace."

Direction: Kalavanthin is a hilly region located in the area around Panvel in Mumbai. To get there you would have to go to a village called Thakurwadi by an auto-rickshaw called Tum-tum from Panvel station. It takes around 45 minutes to reach Thakurwadi, base camp of Kalavanthin.

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Here’s the Archer

2011-07-02T04:48:00.000-07:00

I am a centaur (half man, half horse) flinging the arrows. I am an archer who gets its life force from fire and has an eternal quest for knowledge. I can move like a fire quickly and uncontrollably from one thing to the other and never look back. I am an archer who is spiritual, true-believer and seeker of truth. Some of my friends back in school, college have called me a true Sagittarian- quirky, funny and philosophical. And yes, I love to socialize with an ever-changing crew. I like to hop from one goal to the other. I also tend to procrastinate and become quite inconsistent at times. I like to overstep boundaries, become irrational and not become a conformist.

Caramel

2011-07-01T02:34:00.001-07:00

The sticky, chewy melted caramel is a bittersweet treat for the viewers, as much as it is for the four Lebanese women in Beirut’s salon called Si Belle. Nadine Labaki’s tale revolving around the intersecting lives of four women working in a salon explores the issues and struggles of women in a conflicted society. One hour into the movie, I could completely bond and empathise with the women. As the story unfolded, a feeling of inexplicable sadness enveloped me.

Labaki, the writer of the plot with Jihad Hojeily and Rodney Al Haddad, owner of the shop is in love with a married man and spends anxious hours waiting for him. While Layale fights against her inner demons making her intensely jealous of her lover’s wife, recently divorced actress Jamale is trying to compete with a younger woman for work in television commercials. Muslim bride-to-be Nisrine fears that her husband will find out that she has lost her virginity and tomboyish Rima wages a futile war against her lesbian instincts. The beauty salon symbolizes a modern world where women from varying age, background come to fulfill their eternal quest for westernization and beauty.

While I could easily bond with the liberated women in the movie, I felt helpless for the lack of clarity and hypocrisy within most of us for the limitations put by the society. Each of us have this constant need to be well-accepted in the society we live in, institutionalized and have a stable job, nice house and a rich husband.

The film also shows Aunty Rose, as she struggles to earn a living by her tailoring job and supports her mentally challenged sister, Lily. The sudden appearance of an old handsome man brings some colour to her otherwise mundane life. Ladaki has shown the romance between the aged couple subtly when Aunty Rose tries to take measurements of his suit or joins him for a quiet dinner at his apartment on her way to deliver the suits. Rose sacrifices her own happiness for her ailing sister.

Women all over the world face similar emotions. Life is not always fair and each of us face moments of loneliness, disappointment and heartbreak. Our toughness, resilience and strength help us overcome these negative feelings.

However, I’m impressed with the kind of camaraderie and support we see among Layale’s co-workers. She can probably find her journey a little easier with the compassion given by her friends.

My own inner struggles, confusions about love, life perhaps lessened a bit. Or should I say, the movie helped my perceptions change for the better.

Party time!

2010-07-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

A post after a really really long time. However, I was not feeling up to a short story this time around. I will probably have to wait for a while till my creative juices start flowing again.
It’s over a year now since I moved into my current accommodation. And after a fairly long wait I finally invited my extended families over for lunch. I also called few friends along with them. And, really it was a fun experience, the hard work nevertheless. The best part was when the kids were fighting over chicken nuggets and one of them whispered into my ear that more of it should be ordered.
Yes, I managed to cook a meal and starters for around twelve people. For starters I dished out chicken nuggets, biscuit with cheese toppings and sausage salad and meal consisted of a completely bong spread with fish curry and mutton curry, raita, salad and rice. In return, surprisingly I got nice gifts from each of the visiting families. One of them got me nice glass bowls on a tray, another got me six whiskey glasses and I also got a beautiful fashion jewellery. One of my office colleagues also turned up with her boyfriend and apparently enjoyed the bong gathering.
And a party is hardly ever over without booze which was sponsored by my extended families. However, the aftermath of the blast was not very pleasant. I was down with a bad fever in the night and I am still feeling unwell.

The veiled dance

2010-02-01T03:33:00.000-08:00

Shanatan sat on Chennai’s Gandhi Nagar beach all by himself and took in the essence of the city’s evening in slow drags of his bidi. He saw the full moon’s surge of silver filling the sand and streaming across the road. He heard the usual bustle of the flower-sellers, pickled mango-sellers, roaring laughter of two kids. Shanatan could almost see moon’s misty veil as the masque of the Chhau dance.

Walking towards Parikrit’s bungalow right across the beach, he saw the house as it was- a rendition of a piece of art. A low gate made of twigs led to a holy tulsi-mandap, a big living room with two huge wooden swings in it opened onto a huge door which further opened to an empty tract of green land. A cool, moist sea breeze intermingled with the breeze of the ninety plants in the compound and created a melody- those plants were neem, eucalyptus, mango, tamarind. There was a well in the compound, an open stage for performances, an area for discourses on art and culture and place to rehearse.

A debate on theatre was on when Shanatan got back from his evening stroll. He almost bumped into an elderly man in white flannel trouser and pink kurta. A benign smile lit up the old man’s face as he said, “You must be one of the Chhau dancers. I am Parikrit’s old friend.” Shanatan immediately folded his palms and said, “I am Shanatan Mahato. Yes you are right. I am a Chhau dancer from Purulia. I have come with our lot to grace the occasion of Mirambika’s anniversary.” The old man retorted, “Indeed, indeed. You know, what a great dancer Mirambika was. And she was particularly fond of Chhau dance. I can still see her vividly in a white and sky-blue dress that was her favourite and silver jewellery. Her laughter still rings in my ears.” The old man sighed and walked away.

Shanatan could hear Parikrit making a speech. He saw all the people sitting outside in the open air rushing to hear him speak. Parikrit was a learned man, an authority on art and culture, a journalist, professor and a good speaker.

Shanatan did not join the rest of the intellectuals, artists attending the discussion. His fifteen-year old daughter Padma was waiting for him, lying awake from bus-journey.

Shanatan called Padma outside- two cups of tea loosened up the father and daughter. Shantanu felt spirited enough to join in the rehearsal session with the rest of Chhau dancers from Mayurbhanj and Saraikela. One of them was imitating the steps of Mirambika’s dance and talking excitedly about the erstwhile dancer’s artistic accomplishments. Curious Shanatan was imbued with an unusual seriousness.

On the second day, shy Padma seldom stirred from her perch, stuck to his father, remained tight-lipped- only moved to make her way from the room to the open space for lunch. “I haven’t got you here to hide away and doze off. Even though you are not performing here you should try to pick up some steps. A year or two and you would be married off. Then you would anyways not be able to dance.”

Chennai heat could not beat the fury of nature in Purulia, felt Shanatan. He could almost see her wife’s red face fanning the stove, stirring the pot of boiling vegetables curry- how they both would linger on long after they had finished eating and discuss about Padma’s future and other matters of the household. Despite poverty, crisis when the afternoon sun played on him as he cycled his way to his workstation, post office, he hummed a popular tune.

That evening there was the first Chhau performance- a rendition of intricate balance of mind, body and soul. The music and the three kinds of Chhau including Mayurbhanj, Saraikela and Purulia turned the show spectacular. Especially after Shanatan’s performance there was a big round of applause- the crowd was mesmerised. A little later, Parikrit called him aside and said, “You stole the show, master. Great performance.” Parikrit beamed proudly at Shanatan.

That night as Shanatan lay on his bed with Padma by his side, in the pitch darkness he sensed a woman walking past the open window, her graceful body seemed to mean a thousand mysteries buried under the ravages of time- it seemed to move in a rhythm. Shanatan felt his tongue dry, beads of sweat glistening on his temple, faced Padma with his back to the window.

The very next day Shanatan was down with high fever- the news came as a jolt to Parikrit. Immediately medical help was rushed in and all measures taken to cure Parikrit’s favourite dancer of the lot. Shanatan could barely open his eyes but still assured Parikrit that he would be fit for the next day’s final performance.

Like a bad trip Shanatan’s dreams trailed to his humble abode, crisis, money, Padma’s marriage and amidst everything a silhouette of a graceful woman trying to take him to an unfamiliar terrain.

The final evening arrived-all other dancers and Parikrit was convinced of Shanatan’s inability to make it to the stage. The final stage was set for Chhau dance. The small plant that Mirambika had planted at the side of the stage had blossomed into a fully-grown tree. The moon-lit night spread its splendour on the stage and people- everyone seemed to be eager to drown himself into the magnificence of the unison between moon’s aura and Chhau. And on such an occasion Mirambika’s close friends felt an unearthly presence of their beloved lady.

Shanatan was slotted for the second dance which in his absence was going to get cancelled. Surprisingly after the first performance and before Parikrit’s announcement a female veiled Chhau dancer made an entry and started dancing- By the abrupt intruding Parikrit got irritated initially but as he started watching her solo performance he was spellbound- who is it?- It has to be Padma- There is no other female dancer there- But the body movements and sensuous appeal seem so familiar- Is it then?- No but that cannot be true. The audience bursted into loud applause as the dancer made her way out of the stage and disappeared.

Shanatan woke up to a bitter taste in his mouth and a bright morning. He felt slightly better. The other dancers hounded him soon and rattled on about his shy daughter’s success the day before- Padma was a diamond, they said. Parikrit too came and thanked Shanatan for his wonderful, talented daughter’s performance.

When everyone took their leave Shanatan turned towards Padma with a questioning look to which Padma stared at him blankly for sometime and then lowered her head. Shanatan did not push his daughter further for a reply.

Shanatan pulled himself up from his bed, packed his bags, accepted the handsome pay and left Chennai for Purulia. Miraculously he felt fit than ever before.

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Marxist died again….

2010-01-25T06:57:00.000-08:00

As the TV reporter jostled with the crowd that had come to attend the last rites of Jyoti Basu, sitting in her cosy apartment in Kandivli, Mumbai, Mitali felt a pang of sadness. The Marxist in her mind died again.

In the numerous photographs of him shown on television Mitali instantly felt a resemblance that took her back to her house in Garfa, Kolkata.

Jyoti Basu’s surefooted steps, poise, curt and crisp replies were admired by the masses. A marxist known to friend and foe as a true gentleman, a shrewd politician, he is indeed the last marxist.

Bearded Rajan’s face came vaguely to her mind- a marxist intellectual in Kolkata who spewed out historical inevitabilities. Despite being critical of Jyoti Basu, Rajan looked up to him.

It was 1977. Mitali was a nineteen-year old impressionable girl. Burning heat had transformed Kolkata into an ember. Out in the open, the buffaloes and the cows remained neck-deep in the ponds; the anguished people in the pavement hurled abuses at each other; dust-covered naked children cried out in heat and hunger. Mitali’s joint-family consisting of her uncles, aunts, cousins, parents, siblings spent their sunday afternoons turning and tossing on the cool, red-cement floor of their humble abode.

Yet the harshness of Kolkata summer never came in the way of Rajan’s occasional visits to Mitali’s house. Nor was the companionship that sprung between the two of them misconstrued by her traditional, communist family.

Rajan had the gift of story telling. He knew the entire journey of the communists, the nitty-gritty’s of Indian politics. To the communist family of Mitali, Rajan’s arrival brought with it a series of information and light from the outside world.

Mitali absorbed what he said with unbridled relish. Mitali’s worldview seeking the edge of crystals, rows of chandeliers, finally opened up to a clearer translucent glass. She slowly found her feet grounded on a firm communist soil. She learnt to keep her emotions to herself and be objective with her views.

Even with all her boldness, objectivity and inspiration Mitali could not open up her heart to her father. And Rajan was also too imbued with his sole passion to give any other flame a thought.

Norwester wind relieved people of the stifling summer in Kolkata. And the lull transformed into a whip of rain. The dense green foliage turned hazy, streets were empty. And people started staying indoors more- argued more- arguments with insidious intent- gossips about Mitali and Rajan and many such souls.

Mitali could not take it any more. She gave in- agreed to her family’s decision. She was now ready to appear before the eyes of the strangers- as Eliot rightly said- eyes that measured her with formulated phrase- eyes that saw the bone of her wrists to figure out her chances of obesity- roving eyes that checked her out from head to toe.

Within the span of a few months her suitors started spilling over at her place. After the cups, omelette, sweets, smiles her first suitor, a businessman dealing with oil told her, “You will be very happy with us. My mother is very religious. You should help her with her daily rituals every day. And you won’t have to go out of the house much. Everything would be provided for you.”

Her second suitor, working at LIC, looked like a demon that was capable of lifting her frail, thin body with a hand.

Bhava Atomic Research employee, her third suitor wanted her desperately. To everyone’s amusement, it was observed that he winked while speaking, without any rhyme or reason. Realizing the reluctance on the part of the girl’s family, this person even tried to allure her with promises of fancy car, house, foreign-trips and branded clothes.

And the fourth one was an employee of Durgapur Steel plant who was greatly liked by all members excepting Mitali. His voice sounded exactly like that of Sachin Tendulkar and Mitali found him somehow quite repulsive.

Thus Mitali slowly saw her moment of greatness flicker. Comrade Rajan too disappeared completely from her life.

Again a misty September evening in Kolkata- a slight drizzle outside. People were lighting diyas and burning incense sticks for their evening prayer, conch-shells were blown that sent out a holy charm in the air. Mitali was outside with his best friend Koel and present husband Anubhav, his fifth suitor. They were outside for their final meeting before marriage. Koel left the two of them with umbrella and ran to get wet in the rain.

It was just then, after a few shy glances, apprehensions, plans for future, touch that sent shivers through the bodies, promises the story of a lifetime initiated and the death of a marxist happened somewhere.

Evette

2010-01-09T04:51:00.000-08:00

Sun in Mahabalipuram shines brightly on her rose-tinted cheeks…The broomstick in her hand seems to sweep away any gestures of meniality from anyone..She does her apparently servile job with dignity.

She is Evette..She’s fascinated with the culture and smell of India…Far back in England, when she was much younger and life had much to offer she spent her leisure hours gazing at the map of India and resolved to be here someday. ..She’s a long-term guest in Bharat Guest House…According to her this “long-term” state would be permanent if our Mr. Singh becomes more merciful to their lot. .Evette is Velvet for her Indian friends..Fifty-five years old Evette does not shy away from making friends..The random people she spoke to while on her first visit to Mahabalipuram back in 2007 are still her friends. .On every occasion she likes to strike up conversations with the guests here…

Occasionally while cooking her sambar-rice in Bharat Guest House she loses herself in the snow-flakes dripping down the glass window panes of her house, the uncanny silence of Zurich, the ice-capped mountains of the Alpine range. As she sees her sambar simmer her eyes glistens with the thoughts of those tortuous moments with her alcoholic husband..She also had her own shares of vices..In fact every photo clicked by her friends in her twenty-five years of marriage shows her with a cigarette…But a little bit of resolution was all it took to stub that habit out…No amount of counseling, treatment helped her husband recover..She got fed up and yearned for a better life somewhere far away…

The cool breezes, bright sun, earthy people, bright colours, vast sea, the unition of mind-body-soul are some of the flavours of life here in this Indian village. ..While relating about her life to the young Indian couple in that Guest House she says how she prays to god that she should be born Indian in her next birth. ..Looking at the amused faces of that couple she says that average Indian kids are more pampered and have more lavish weddings….

In diwali evening she is stupefied by the fireworks and as she shuts her eyes she senses million fireworks, a feeling sublime and similar to her engagement with her husband…Born to a Swiss peasant’s house her growing years did not see enough luxury…she was always different from her friends who were only seeking the comforts of life…she wanted to get away, study English Language, go to England….

Evette believes freedom is the greatest wealth one could have..A good book to read, a kitten on her lap are all she wants at her leisure now…She does not miss her family that much who are also scattered in different places…Four daughters, mother, husband in different parts of Europe….

Evette thinks she’s a global citizen..Well, for different people the sense of world is different..Some people find the world in their courtyard and some needs to be a wanderer to get a sense of the world…

And another day in Bharat Guest House…The morning is pouring all its sunshine on the tourists..people are happy, holding each other’s hands, couples caressing each other, birds chirping, cafes filled with seekers of fulfillment and happiness…..Bharat Guest House’s Tamil owner is at his last round of negotiating room rents with the guests…While talking to his new foreign guests he grins wide and asks- “Which part of Europe are you from”..Those people reply “Italy”..The owner says, “Oh, I’ve been there.”..The owner added, “You know, we don’t let our rooms out to the native people, just to the foreigners..the Indians are too noisy.”….Evette says hi to them and helps them move to their respective rooms.

Evette’s world is very different from the people here..Because she’s truly a citizen of the world…Or perhaps it’s not business that influences her thoughts….the sense of nationhood, boundaries, communities, colours are very unimportant to her..Humanity is the only universal truth Evette believes in…..

I am no one to criticize or judge Evette’s life…But definitely a glimpse into her inner world stirs my conscience and biases…And I wish it leaves some semblance of clarity and enlightens me too….

The other life

2009-07-11T02:38:00.000-07:00

Rathigaon is a breather! Every small thing here rejuvenates senses, ushers pleasant thoughts. The carefree rural folks, friendly smiles, small mud kirana stores taking care of daily necessities of villagers are indeed a change. Rupsa feels like thanking Arya thousand times. Though she is quick in realizing the fact that her intense desire to walk down the road arm in arm with him might attract curious glances. The white fog hangs like a cloth and obstructs vision. Slowly the images of life in Mumbai's suburb, the failed attempts at trying to fit oneself in the structured ambience of media company is lost to Rupsa in the blurring vision. Rupsa eagerly awaits some moments of solitude with her special friend, Arya. Maybe, the pre-decided stay at Arya's cousin's place in this hamlet not leave them completely on their own. But still, she hopes, there will be time to pour her heart out to him which seemed almost impossible in the reality imposed by time and distance.
The thin-waist village lass holding a tiffin carrier passes them by. Rupsa feels a sense of companionship with the rural female that sprung from the ease with which they both dedicated themselves to their men. Rupsa was not disilluded by the blinding colours of Mumbai high life, a promising job. The different shades of hue in her office, the limelight, the space to hobnob with the people in power seemed to come with a price that was too high. Was it worth it? A woman with a masque, be only close to people who matter, shout and scream to find favour with your superiors.....Was it easy for Rupsa? No, but slowly the reasons weighed on her heavily. Arya helped her get clarity on sorting out the pieces of her thoughts.
Arya's cousin Rudra opened the door of her bungalow and welcomed them in. He was in his usual jovial self, said, "You both look fabulous together....Great to see you after such a long time." His modest dwelling had two rooms, mosaic-tiled floors , an orange lampshade that threw the designs on it into a pattern on the floor.
Standing by the window of Rudra's house Rupsa looked intensely at the garden outside, the waning hour of the day helped the plants play hide and seek with light and shadow. Arya placed his hand on her shoulder and said, Ï've been waiting eagerly for this moment. I was yearning for this togetherness. After all, life is not about material possessions. It's good we both matured and are together."
Yes, they are growing older, Rupsa felt. Few years back she could not have even dreamed of giving up her job that was a dream and fortunately came to her almost on a platter. All those friends in Cafe Coffee Day, Press Club speaking spontaneuosly about news, views and gossips.......All those eyes who measured your ability with skilled eyes and immediately shuns you or befriends you. ..and you end up feeling like a branded product like the ones displayed in those fancy malls.
Arya pulls Rupsa closer to him and slowly immerses himself in her. Evening spread against Rathigaon sky. The entire universe seemed to be embracing the couple out there. Even this moment of solitude and bliss between the two of them came with a price...The quietude there too seems to say, "Don't relationships too come with price tags? Doesn't every relationship has value attached to it?"
Is anything immaterial in time and space?

Television Media

2009-07-04T07:19:00.000-07:00

All you guys..Pls pardon me for changing words of Tagore's poetry...Couldn't help it....Again one boring Saturday in office....not much to do...and as you all know ''empty mind is devil's workshop"

Where people scream uselessly and flash to death

Where knowledge is irrelevant,

Where the world is broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls

Where words come out from pressure of competition,

where tireless aggression stretches its arms towards excellence,

Where the clear stream of reason has lost its way into the dreary desert of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into the ever-narrowing thought and action,

Into that planet of freedom, my Father, television media journalism awakens us

Random thoughts

2009-07-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

"Your mind is like a small bird that jumps from one branch to the other"

Sohini, a close childhood friend had told me this.

Several other times my mind was called volatile by another friend, "scatterbrained" by someone else.

My thoughts are so illogical and weird and different at times.

My blogs reflect my irational and illogical self.

At times I feel it's good to be this person. Life is just not black and white then.

But it also makes every day living difficult and complex.

At times I wish I could earn lots of money and get long holidays by beautiful sea- beaches at the same time. I wish I could spend endless romantic moments with special people, devour amazing preparations of seafood.

I wish I could make many adventure trips with friends.

I wish life would not just be brought down to communications through social networking sites and fake friends.

A good cup of tea in a soft comfortable chair, with a good companion, a view of a range of green hill, are some of the things I yearn.

Will I ever get all these in this life??

Romanticising life too much?? Isn't it??

Life in oblivion

2009-05-17T04:55:00.000-07:00

Life in oblivion

There they are, in the village now, ambling down the muddy track. They had called him, made an appointment; and here they were. He stands in the backyard of their mud-hut, in the twilight, scratching his scalp and throwing small pebbles far-off in the wilderness. There is a suppressed excitement in this wait. He hears their voices- inquisitive, impatient. He turns and silently goes towards the inner door, into the dark confines of their modest dwelling. He pushes it ajar, quietly, holding his breath. The view of another room, right at the end of the corridor is like a den illuminated by the deep glow of the fire. There his mother sits, rummaging through the bottles to find something for dinner. Two children, tear-stained cheeks and hungry eyes, in torn half-pants sit on the floor beside her. He looks at them, his heart pounding.

Finally, he hears the rattling. His parents come out of the interior and look at each other. Their expressions are troubled and apprehensive. "Be careful. Do not mess up" his father says. Then the man goes and opens the door and lets them in.

"We almost lost our way."- one man speaks out aloud and brings in two other men with camera. "How are you?"- enquires one of them looking at the members of the house.

"We are fine." His father murmurs to his visitors, joining both his hands, with a blank and white-faced look, as if he had just seen ghosts.

Then the visitors introduce themselves. "Namaste. I am Prabir Dey, reporter from 'Mirror of India'. They are Tarun Walia and Arjun Singh- our cameramen and assistant reporters." Pointing out to the boy Prabir says, "I guess this is Pritam."

"Yes." Pritam's father says. He gathers himself quickly and asks them to sit on the mat kept on the wooden cot. There is a calendar with the Hindu goddess- Kali's picture on it. An old, rusted trunk kept in the corner and a shelf on the wall before the pictures of deities. A comb, box of sindoor, hair oil lies cluttered on the shelf.

"Okay Pritam, could you please tell us what do you exactly remember of your previous birth?" Prabir starts interviewing him. With a thick American accent Pritam says, "Well, I was born to American parents. They were Ted Ross and Barbara Ross. We lived in New Jersey. My father was a doctor. I had no sibling."

"Since when you started thinking about this and how did you suddenly get that accent?"

"I've had strange dreams for a month now. The dreams generally revolved around glimpses of my life in New Jersey. And then I slowly started remembering all those days in my previous house. We lived in a beautiful, wooden house which had a veranda at the back. I had a room of my own, filled with toys and books. And I found out I could now speak like I used to."

"Are they still living?"

"I have no idea about that."

"If this is considered to be true what do you want to do now?"

"I don't want anything as such. If possible and if my earlier parents are living I would like to meet them once. But I want to stay with my present family in spite of the poverty and harsh life. Here our family cannot even afford to send me to high school."

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes, I passed 9^th standard this year."

"Do you want to go for further study?"

"Yes I would love to study and earn and live. Now if only circumstances allow."

The interview finally ends. They all stand around him, smiling, with kind expressions. They wish him "good luck" and leave.

"Good job." says his father, patting him on the arm. "I'm sure the learned drama-master of the village gave you a good training. And I must say you are also clever to have picked up the language so well. Now this attention of the newspaper is definitely going to stand us in good stead."

Pritam creeps away into a corner and wraps himself closely in a shawl. The different ways to fight against poverty bewilders him. A view of his imagined paradise called America appears before his eyes. All sense of morality and justice to him seems to be lost in the murky world of his reality.

Sushma..Ruma..Fiction

2009-05-17T04:42:00.000-07:00

On a Sunday in office.....There's not much to do here. .....I felt like writing a story and jotted down something...

The house was silent excepting the occasional noise caused by the wall-clock. The sun was at its brightest best outside. The locality felt quiet as usual. Finally, all semblance of solitude were broken by everyone’s darling Kalu. Sushma lifted the curtain and looked out the window. Kalu immediately stopped barking and started wagging its small white tail. Ït’s time for some food,” Sushma mused and went into the kitchen. She opened her packet of cookies bought from Spencer’s the day before. She kept the cookies aside for the evening tea party and took out two dog biscuits from the jar.

She once peeped into her six-year old daughter’s bedroom. Ruma was sleeping all curled up on the bed. Suddenly Sushma felt a pang of anxiety. She felt emptiness in her stomach and restlessness inside. Did she hear it right? Was the brawl between “those people”and her neighbour really happening outside or is it just a figment of her imagination.

No, she was not wrong. She saw that person through the bathroom window. Dressed in a shiny pink saree and backless blouse that person lifted her saree till her knee and said, “Oh, my god..Look at you. ….you proud mother of a son….why can’t you trust us with ur child?” The other person in a skirt and top twirled twice and started singing which means, “Without our blessing your son won’t grow and prosper.”

Sushma’s face contorted in pain and fear. She immediately shut the window. She heard the creaking noise in the other room. And her suspicion came true. Ruma was in the other room by the window. She saw Ruma’s eyes looking yearningly at those people.

Sushma’s yes filled with tears. An unrevealing fact was slowly going to be public. She looked at Ruma and her child’s beckoning expression. She felt her stomach with her hand and sat down on the floor.