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
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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 as cheek touched 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 with its tables lit by conch-shell lights, sand-filled floor, 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 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 as cheek touched 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 with its tables lit by conch-shell lights, sand-filled floor, 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 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
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Interlude
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
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"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
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Rustom Daruwalla
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 be 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
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 be 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
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Trek- Kalavanthin
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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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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Saturday, July 2, 2011
Here’s the Archer
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.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Caramel
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.
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.
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