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
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Tuesday, August 16, 2011
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
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