Dog Days

TWENTY years after they had parted, she spotted his dark frame in the fierce glow of the sun in Mumbai. After the initial sense of befuddlement, she said, “Let's go to Mondegar Café.“
Surprisingly, her lost lover looked younger by 20 years. His sprightly self appeared almost magically, like an oasis to quench the thirst of a weary traveller.

Summer had brought back her lost passion and she felt exhilarated; was eager to enclose the elusive realty in a time warp and stay suspended in her own zone.

She thought, “Is he married?“ But, did it matter if he was married? She sensed the approaching loo, the hot summer storm blowing off the dust from memories of yore. She felt content and happy.

As they walked through the crowded thoroughfare, the sun beat fiercely on the charred road. She saw beads of sweat on his temple, wrinkled eyes, twitched nose and sensuous lips. The intense heat, dust and the scorched earth seemed to ignite the desires of the young and the old hearts.

Mondegar Café lane was populated with sweating people, speeding up and down the road, brushing against each other as they yelled maniacally.

The aroma of barbecued meat, chello kebab mingled with the Mughlai flavours of her hometown Delhi wafted through the burning inferno. In strident white sparks, she saw a vivid face, loving gestures and longing heart, looking into her eyes.

She was tempted to hide inside the icy-cool roadside inn. She saw him slowly merge with the white glow of the sun, leaving only remnants of him in the occasional breeze from gulmohar and neem trees.

Then, perhaps, roused by the sadness in her eyes, a band of pigeons fell out of the sheltered nest, tumbled frantically in the still, sizzling area, sorted out their way and streaked away across the white sky.

She walked into the café and immersed her divine nostalgia in slow sips of chilled beer. Outside, Mumbai in the afternoon turned into a vast abyss, an infernal city full of secret fire.

Meghna Maiti

House Hunting

At the age of 25, the sense of disillusionment with one’s own self is real. So, I was disappointed when the lousy landlord did not wish to extend my lease and asked me to vacate the flat within a week. His son, who earns in dollars, was coming back soon to inhabit the pigeonhole of a place. The smudge on the wall needed to be painted, faulty plumbing repaired and the nuisances of ownership shifted. The baggage of someone’s existence had to be replaced by another set.

As I puttered around my room, sat stiffly on my mattress and surveyed the room, its cheap mosaic floor, the ramshackle bookshelf and cupboard and the arcane dressing unit, all that had become my own, an inexplicable sadness drowned me. It was the sort of place that had shown me the path to independence of mind and character with its exclusionary nature. Even the quotidian extravagances of daily life, which included making my bed and doing the chores were pleasurable because it was there I met with my lost self. Since at my age the sense of self is often blurred, my decision to stay alone in this house for the first time was for both good and bad.

A house broker from the neighbourhood, who is an agent and a part of a big network of real estate chains, consoled me, grinned his lopsided Shah Rukh Khan smile and said, “Don’t worry. Such small things happen in big cities. I will get you the best place within your budget.”

Over the days, I came to terms with my transient state. The cold gaze and unfriendly welcome of landlords did not bother me anymore. I started looking at each home stay as the accustomed rituals and formalities of arrival and departure. Each visit gave way to a larger journey. I was prepared to arrive and go, welcome a temporary imagined future and greet a new identity each time. And in that transition, in between two homes, I learnt to get liberated from the uncomfortable truth that the time would soon come to end the trip.

Meghna Maiti

The First Vice

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental.


Camelia lighted the tenth cigarette of the day and exhaled richly onto the darkness.

Outside, the vast expanse of familiar landscape, the black and white of the divine Himalaya, seen countless times, but never experienced, seemed impenetrable.

What a relief! She felt like bales of cotton bobbing up and out of some abyss on the unexpected occasion; like soap-bubbles in the air; dewdrops on a wild flower; so free and fresh yet so profound; the sweet aftertaste of it all lingered on her mind. She felt like kissing the air as she gazed at the star-studded sky; the swarming phosphorescence that looks so transient, almost hallucinatory; she saw the veiled moon hiding behind the swift cloud and the meteor rising, falling; she kept staring, standing on the terrace of their hotel until Fatima said, “You have finished an entire pack of cigarettes! First vice of your life, baby. Try the others. Trust me; you would never need a man.” For indeed this escapade to Pelling with Fatima and three other childhood friends has elevated her to a different height; taken her mind off her search for a man; her failed attempts at several matrimonial sites for six long years; numerous rejections; scowls of her father; indifference of friends. How strange is life and how wonderful! - Around the vicious circle and off it.

A truck roared by, invading the silence. In the midst of waking and dreaming, Camelia sensed strength, confidence; certain recklessness; an urge to enclose the elusive reality in a time-warp and stay suspended in her own zone. As she rolled another marijuana joint, she heard moan, hot-breath and whispers of the lovers in the room right beneath the terrace. She stiffened a little, sharpened her senses to be part of the whirling sensation of pleasure, the numbing sounds of lust and love, which rasped her body deliciously. Here she was still untainted, she thought while the rest of the world seemed to be spinning on love. A plain Jane with an Adonis, Camelia thought of the lover-girl; a sluggish, sloth creature, plump and short, with freckles on her face; she was around thirty and spoke English with a thick vernacular accent.

For having spent a better part of her years in Delhi, being part of the elite journalism circuit, now she was aware of her charms; a touch of the bird about her, vitality, intelligence that people could kill for. Yet the love clock of all effectual men seemed to only tick for plain Janes. As the owl of Minerva lurked in its nest, she watched life go by from her perch in Delhi; feeling a violent grudge against the world which had scorned her, sneered at her, cast her off. She suffered greatly as she saw love blossoming in her flat-mate- Neera’s life; the twinkle in her eyes, the triumph and jingle in her voice, the intensity in her moments. For heaven only knows, why good things only happen to less-deserving people; the most dejected of miseries are bestowed on souls like her who have always been honest, good and fair.

It was not that love did not come to her door; it came in different hues and forms; wrapped in soft mesh of the early morning air; which as the day wore on, merged with the eternity. “You are my soul-mate. I wish I could marry you,” she remembered the words of Glenn, a fellow journalist. Her heart went out to him, felt attached to him, yet she never found him strong enough to be her husband; he remained a fleeting sensation in her life. Now that they are parted for years, he never cared to write her a letter; some days, some sights bring him back calmly; without the old bitterness; especially those spring evenings in Delhi, that she liked the most.

For it was the month of March, one of the best months in Delhi. The sun seemed to swirl in a mild, caring way and exuded that divine vitality which Camelia loved. The spring of the year breathed life into the very year and adorned the trees with young leaves; life seemed to be full of immense possibilities. It was also the time when her switch from financial sphere of journalism to general seemed a coming-out-of-the-box experience, a connection with the wider world. Yet her heart did not beat for the newness in the air or the state of the nation. Did it matter then, she asked herself, did it matter how clever or accomplished she was if it did not help her get a suitable man? She wallowed more and more in self pity. For Neera was quite happy with her new-found lover-boy- perfectly happy, though she has never taken a single risk in life or had she chosen a noble profession; her whole life appeared to be a failure. And it made Camelia angry still.

It was not that Camelia had any feeling of superiority over others or any sense of being out-of-the-ordinary. She was like a sharp-edged knife with the ability to slice through every being. She could understand people almost by instinct. Forgiving friends easily was not in her nature as she had high expectations from them. She had ill-feelings towards her friends who were so imbued in their lives that they could now barely squeeze out time for her. She resented the fact that now she was the last priority for people she always stood by through thick and thin. For people really move on in big cities, in the ebb and flow of life, somewhere they get consumed by their own passions and needs- and only some pilgrim souls like her strike out alone; their blessed beings wait eternally for a touch of warmth.

“Good things happen to good people. Do not worry. You just have to be more open to the world and look around,” said Fatima, rather lovingly, for they had known each other since childhood.

As she stood on the terrace of their hotel, in the lap of the Himalaya, she mused, plunged into the heart of the moment; trying to collect the whole of herself- for this very moment was the truth for her, far removed from the constant bickerings of her parents for her marriage, whispers of jealousies of her relatives, pressures to prove her worth in the world. The dazzling, snowy inclines of the mountain peak transfixed her yet she could not feel any holy presence.

How many million times she had felt Him always with the same radiancy in her dull life! How often in her childhood days, as she lay by the side of her little brother; the discordant noise of fights, abuses of her parents would wake her up in the middle of the night. She would purse her lips and look at herself in the mirror- the self that was strong and good; pillar of strength for her family. She rose to her that self with some effort; always trying to be a good child to her parents, good sister to her brother; remaining forever so calm and composed, not giving into any vices, never showing her inner demons- faults, jealousies, vanity, suspicions.

Then wasn’t law of karma all balderdash, she thought, as she breathed in the earthy fragrance and wanted to lose herself in the moment, on this beautiful April evening in Pelling, with her friends, owning up to her vices.

ENDS


Meghna Maiti

The Spiritual Guru

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental. 

Here was Paradise. Muriel could sense the call of the unknown, and the aura of holiness in the dark abyss. She could feel the swish of an ancient snake along the silent wheat field; the splash of sea-gulls encircling a pellucid lake. Her tranquil eyes spotted a blessed soul guiding her to the path of enlightenment. Anxiety waned; eyes shone; spirit was wafted along by the breeze.

The setting sun stole her gaze. She kept staring at the horizon until it blended into darkness. Twilight etched a frame around her careless tresses. Her soul took a flight with the birds, soared higher and higher.

“You have beautiful, sparkling eyes!” Younis said. For the first time since they had sat at the terrace of Vincent’s house, she flashed her smile at Younis. Returning an assured smile, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the floor.

How did twenty-year old, college-going girl Muriel land up with a stranger from Iran? How could an innocent visage reveal the battered soul within- the sudden plunge into a relationship with her classmate- Jean, the disastrous outcome of it?

She was burdened with the discordant nature of her body and soul. When she arrived at Vincent’s place needing empathetic ears for few hours before waking up to harsh daybreak, she felt puny with the baggages of the past. At one of her weakest moments, she had not thought twice about relying on her wise, erudite college-friend- Vincent.

Muriel would seek solace in Vincent’s company for a while. It was necessary to share her unhappiness given the inner turmoil that left her with sleepless nights. How could anyone otherwise guess that her nights were now spent sitting by Jean’s photos?

Sitting on the balcony of Vincent’s house, she saw the brightness of the noon and made up her mind. Within moments Vincent was deluged with tales of her love, fights and heart-break. He had resumed his intense look throughout, oblivious to everything else; as if he read her mind perfectly and saw through her desires.

Within days of joining college Vincent had become well known for his erudition and charming manners- the stuff the intelligentsias are made of. The professors would discuss issues with him outside classroom, as would the cute girls. He could quote Derrida, Foucault, Freud with élan and he would spend his off-hours staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts. One isn’t a thinker unless one is lost. Impressed, Muriel shared her lost self with him.

In distress she needed a friend- one who would show her the right path and yet not get judgmental. In Vincent, she had found both, along with the fact that he did not know her lover Jean.

She told Vincent about the brief romance with Jean in the heady days of Paris and their escapades to the mysterious hills and bohemian shacks. Every day she would wait to be in his arms or simply hear his voice- telling him to convince his flat-mates and call her over to his house. For days, the small apartment took the centre stage to the story of Muriel and Jean. The apartment waited for the lovers to return; the bed held its breath as they made passionate love; the nights spun one yarn after another.

Even now she could recall every word Jean had ever spoken to her. She could see his grey eyes and lanky frame- receding hairline and sharp facial profile. The taste of his body still lingered on her tongue and the earthy smell. He had bought French perfume for her body and silver anklets from the shop of ‘love & senses’ at Montparnasse road. Under the star-spangled sky, he had vowed to become her husband and promised to have their children as they held hands and strolled along the snow-covered pine trees.

Paris winter had turned the love-birds homebound creatures. They kept at home, romanced yet disagreed on a lot of issues related to their attitude towards life. Initially, the fights that started like tinkling of glasses turned into yells leading to over-turning tables and chairs around. “You are a selfish person and you are incapable of going beyond yourself to care for others.” Jean would tell her. Muriel had grown tired of the constant comparisons drawn with Jean’s ex-lover, Carla. For the longest time the thought of Carla, her romantic involvement with Jean, made her miserable. She was tormented by her own sense of possessiveness for Jean that burdened her ‘being’ immensely.

“Ahh! I see. You were like a wet nurse to him,” Vincent said in a contemplative tone.

Muriel felt too weak to reply. “Calm down. You must meet Younis.” He was Vincent’s flat-mate from Iran.

Vincent described how his Iranian mate had changed his life for good. Association with Younis was the turning point in his life, the daily influences of which culminated into a larger journey. How else to account for the phase, during the bitter winter of the earlier year, when he salvaged his de-fragmented self? The exercise demanded a lot of himself; returning to the core of every issue and getting connected with the cosmic universe. It meant staring at the millions of stars floating below him; feeling the early morning avalanche floating down his spine. “Like taking you to the edge of the cliff and expect you to plunge in. And you should not be scared because you will slowly feel the lightness. Younis will hold your hand and guide you through the journey of enlightenment.” Vincent finished his epic tale of the spiritual guru; the late afternoon shaft of light illuminated all that was jaded and dead.

Muriel woke with a start as she made a move towards the terrace, darting her eyes to spot him in the dazzling glow of sun, fixing her frightened gaze on her soul. He struck her as an alien with his stately gaze, arched eyebrows. Without a word exchanged between the two, they seemed to know each other. Only the creaking door reminded her of her plight, swaying gently in the breeze as she sat opposite to him.

“It’s a tough journey which could leave you completely drained,” Younis had said after a moment’s silence. “It would mean completely adhering to what I say. A kind of submission of your self to seek enlightenment.” She resumed her intent look as he said how she would have to disentangle from her friends and relations for a few months. The entire journey would require a certain re-orchestration of life- to be uncluttered in thoughts and actions. This would mean donating all that she earned by free-lancing with the national newspapers to charity. “At times, your life might seem completely frozen,” he had said. She did not want to lose her will and ignore her chance of spiritual fulfillment. What if it really showed her the path to independence and bliss?

Following the spiritual guru, Muriel had stepped into the guru’s room to spend the evening with him. She had abided by his instruction to spend time with him discussing her life and miseries. The initial advice to spend an entire evening and night was not possible for obvious reasons. On their way to his room, she saw Vincent in the living room and shot a friendly glance at him. He returned a sheepish grin and continued watching television.

Now alone with her in the room and asking her to share her anxiety, he switched off the brass lamp. She woke with a start, spotted the nervous rat hiding behind the dressing-unit, as a cat growled on the balcony sensing its prey. Younis lit a cigarette as she furnished details about her ‘affair’.

“Now, I have to set a slightly difficult task for you. You need to completely extricate yourself from your past, worries of future and be in unison with me,” Younis said in a nonchalant manner. Her subdued expression reflected a naïve submission. Yet she could not fully comprehend the meaning of his words. “I need to understand a woman’s instinct to be able to guide her through a life-changing journey. This requires the unison of two souls and bodies.”

The trial was indeed draining her strength, she heard herself pleading. I cannot make love with you……… How could she do this with anyone but her lover? She saw his firm expression, unable to fathom his mind in the darkness. Only physical involvement, not necessarily love-making- She heard him whisper over and over- could show her the light.

There was a sudden lull in the air. It made the noise of the rat even more pronounced. She had risen from her perch as if in a trance. Through the haze of outside lights, Yunis saw the naked body of a woman. Only a slight frown played on the foreboding calm on her face. She felt his breath, his hand on the nape of her neck. She looked into the eyes of the spiritual guru and for a moment her eyes went blank.

She rose to consciousness before anything could happen. She’d made up her mind and felt that it was too big a price to pay for her unearthly pursuit. While slipping into her dress, she could hear the spiritual guru chuckle. There was a moment’s silence, and then he said in a low voice- “It’s your call. Do not speak about this to anyone outside. People will think you to be crazy!” A shaft of light from outside illuminated the ‘laughing buddha’ in the room as she stormed out of the room- the rat disappeared into a dark hole.

Meghna Maiti

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I have seen light in your dark embraces

I have seen light in your dark embraces
Like a churchyard in the silent abyss
A flash of illumination that cuts night
I have seen the immensity in your arms
Like a forlorn sailor from an unknown sea
The fading kite that cheers azure sky
The darkness pulls in everything into a vortex
And spreads something more than happiness.

Meghna Maiti

I Yearn To Run Away

I yearn to run away
From the whispers of half-naked lies
From the myriad fake images of happiness
And the young world's obsessive cry
Growing more terrible as the day;
I yearn to run away
From the green eyes, trampled souls,
And the dead malls, thunder of notes,
For the streets are blackened by dead men.

I yearn to run away but I'm afraid;
Some truth, yet unexplored, might haunt
Out of the old lies buried in the mind,
Popping from dark recesses, leave me half-blind.
Eyes who show me fear,
Of lonely life, faith wriggling on a spire,
Fingers that will point at me with accusing glances,
And do I dare to leave all to chances
Or in the palms of soiled hands.

Written by Meghna Maiti

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

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