Short Fictions
February 2019 issue
-------------------------------------------------------FIRST NIGHT TERRORISM
-------------------------------------------------------FIRST NIGHT TERRORISM
by Daipayan Nair
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Night has always been undergoing a few explosions and here, in Silchar, the ‘so called' peaceful city of Barak, it is nothing new. A bomb flash kills the vicinity for a second before dying. The demonic laughter of the social marriage has just faded. Ahona lies exhausted, on a bed of torn rose petals. A tricky imagery denoted as either a martyr or a victim of war. It’s hard to tell. Her blast has been quite silent. The death will now follow for a few hours. Death, now, will be much more painful. She must enter it now, only to be saved by an introspection later.
She sees she can pick no Winter stones in Summer and call them, flowers. Her head is now purely human. It no longer boasts of carrying heaviness but only drops. She can now name any cold object as 'refreshment' and later exaggerate it to an 'attachment without remorse’. She now knows why the desert is a tremendous artist for a simple recognition from rain, why an odd bird chirping is an oddity to us, why mountain peaks are beautiful only in imaginations and why death is swift only for the living. She now feels she can be imprinted as she has stains on her. She now knows writings are just paper stains, never erased.
An hour hops by and now she is brutally smiling for terrorizing dead lives around, to wake for her cause. The smile engraved on her chilling face is just a post satisfaction, watching the helpless tremble. She is heartily heartless enough to do it in spite of knowing, soon she will break into two, and how the kind elders who were murderers for life only gifted a delayed death. And how much have we tried to be so in the broad daylight. Her body is now purely human. It's now extraordinarily killing assumptions and executing things for the moment. She looks at the empty milk glass lying beside her and returns to her sore nipple only to realize, endings must not be seen but felt.
One more hour hops as she is finally breaking into two. The points of attachment are sticky. The remnants are still burning. She is a ghost killer, killing generous ghosts in utmost fear. Hundreds of innocent, peaceful souls swiped away from the earth in a playful reality. The blood is white and white has always been more desirable to be witnessed than that of red. She looks at him by her side and thinks she is following well. And if she is really following and she is just the part of a bigger plan, then the night will never end. She is seeing things just like a window where the passage is free but sometimes even windows are condemned. The brutality for a cause always enrages a few other causes. If she wants, the night can continue.
One more hour and now she sends one of her halve to a distant land of unaccomplished dreams where ‘love for existence’ and ‘existence of Love’ both sound as a beautiful and relaxing myth, while the other half stays crouching by his side, still figuring the real face of violence and its juxtaposed reality. She is a loving jihad struggling for its forgotten essence inside the convinced jihadi. She is now a beard inside the veil, a moustache inside the ghoonghat, a goatee inside the gown. She had always imagined how night always clothes irrespective of a religion. Now, she caresses his furry hair, then his naked back, drawing images of an urban loneliness which follows after every forest trip while her other half speeds with the pace ‘of a few years older', already preparing for the sweet death amidst the emphatic redwoods and tropical air of a far-fetched amazon in the Barak valley. She is about to call both of her halves back. She is about to break the spell by misspelling the wind, replacing it with a different word. Soon, she is going to replace everything else, a new way of shunning things, with her accounts of another new day. He would still keep her old and focused like a convinced jihadi.
It’s almost dawn, death has one more hour left to renew itself. As Ahona waits, fully recovered, beside her uncovered truth. She realizes, nothing has changed in the last few hours except the functioning of a society and the functioning of the mind. The river Barak is flowing in the same direction, with the same name. It's carrying shadows of a few disappointed wings who seemed to have difficulties in perching last night, owing to the clash of cymbals, blowing of trumpets. A harmonic melody, little alien to their own, that’s all. The cows are being brought to the fields by the same owners. They haven’t been replaced by priests. The newspaper boy isn’t delivering a particular propaganda. What he's delivering is news, same as before. The world outside the window and the world in her mirror, both are moving as before, but both stay motionless to her fight. For Ahona, it’s still dark and it will soon burn.
The clock ticks five and there she lies, ending herself. This is the end after death. This is the end where a human discovers shame and doesn't figure it. The end where nakedness opts for nudity. This is the 'five' of a human body lying lifeless, yet bending the head to couch under its own complexities, cancelling the knowledgeable breasts with hands that mold, and the thighs of strength no longer walk through tunnels but fold into nonsensical uncertainties, perceptively known as the sensual. There lies whom we call 'a human'.
She is waking up from her terrorism and uttering the first word. A deep hollow creates itself in her mouth like the first yawn. That's either symbolizing or abusing the terrorist.
He wakes from under his skin; he is smiling, and getting ready again, to blast her. She waits, waits and waits…
“Hurry, we need to leave for the temple in an hour”
Okay, let me go and change.
Terrorism changes but the terrorist doesn’t. Ahona changes more than her name. The old Ahona carries out the usual mission of a self suicide. She then continues propagating her ideals.
She climbs the stairs with camphor and fire in her hands. His fire is dead
“God, please grant us a child, who can one day love as well as burn you.”
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Atreyee, a river
by Sayanta Goswami
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I swung the glass door open and entered the waiting room of the bus stop. It was raining cats and dogs. The rectangular space – separated from the world by panels of glass – was air-conditioned but the machine stopped working a long time ago. I tousled my hair in an effort to dry them up. Cursing myself for not carrying an umbrella with me, I sat on the metal chair.
The rain roared louder. It would be difficult to get a bus in this weather. At least it’s cozy inside, I told myself. I sneezed as the door opened again and along with the stormy wind and splashes of rain came a young lady. Her saree was plastered to her body, making her midriff quite visible. Situations like these always made me nervous. I immediately turned my gaze away.
“Arre, Sagar!” exclaimed a female voice.
I looked up, startled to hear it after so long. “Atreyee!”
“I can’t believe it. How long has it been – five years?” She asked.
“Precisely,” I replied, getting up on my feet. She hugged me.
“Even though it’s not my home, please sit,” I said and motioned to the chairs. She smiled as we sat down.
“So, how are you?” She flicked her hair from over her eyes.
“I’m good, working on an ad agency and trying to make a short film. What about you?”
“Nothing much. I was always so lazy, you know na? It seems like you’re living your dream!”
“Trying to. Thanks!”
She made a face. “Now you’re going to thank me as well. So formal!”
I looked toward the glass door. By now, raindrops had smeared the view outside but I could hear the storm raging on.
“You’re going to have to tolerate me for a long time. The bus isn’t coming any time soon,” she said with a mischievous smile. I chuckled.
“Hey, do you remember when we were in 1st standard, I called you once?” She never knew how to keep quiet.
“I wasn’t home. My granny picked up, and you said you’d talk to no one but me about why you called. Man, I knew you were trouble as soon as I heard that,” I said.
A sound of a vehicle approaching came through the rain. I sprang up to my feet and rushed to the gate. Opening it, I saw a minivan passing by. I was about to close the door when its rear wheel dropped in a puddle and sprayed muddy water all over my shirt. I grunted. As I turned around, she burst out laughing.
“Very funny!” I looked at her in mock anger.
“Now come and sit here. Let’s talk, no?”
I obliged. “Do you remember how in 6th standard you copied all my maths so that the teacher wouldn’t punish you?”
“What’s the big deal in that? I’m your childhood friend, I should have some benefit,” she shrugged.
Thunder roared outside. She shrieked and grabbed my arm with both her hands. I half-turned to look at her as she let it go.
“Still afraid of it?”
“Always will be,” she said and dropped her eyes. Outside, the wind was howling.
“We used to have such fun in Holi! How we would take buckets full of colored water to the terrace and dump them on the passers-by!” She resumed after a pause. Her eyes looked dreamy as though she was seeing them in front of her, reminiscing the view.
“And then when we were in 11th standard, we did something more, didn’t we?” I asked in a playful tone.
“Hush! We did nothing,” she whispered with a shy smile.
“Strawberry, wasn’t that the flavor of your lipstick?”
“Sagar!” Her eyes widened. “We were both drunk.”
“Of course.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she spoke up again.
“We were so good together. What happened, yaar?”
“What happened was you told me I should leave my passion for films and do engineering instead. I counted on you to make my parents understand. You – of all people – thought I wasn’t capable enough of living my dream!” I said. My heart ached as I thought of that day.
“I didn’t say that, Sagar. You misunderstood. All I wanted for you was to have something to fall back on as you work on your dream,” she pleaded.
“Yeah, right.”
“You don’t trust me, na? Fine, say I meant that. What did you do afterward? Ignore me and go out with that girl . . . what was her name, Payel?”
“She was just a friend; someone who shared similar dreams, that’s all.”
“If she was a friend, what was I, Sagar?” She sounded on the verge of crying. I looked up at her. Our eyes locked. They talked to each other, trying to convey everything we couldn’t through words. “Let’s start over again, can’t we?”
“We can,” I nodded. “But then I’d have to kill that man.” I pointed at the parting of her hair. The traces of Vermilion were too evident to miss.
All the light went out from her eyes. Silence ensued. Then blissfully it was broken by the approaching bus. We went toward the door. I held it open for her.
“The bus . . . has come,” I said.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“It’s not my bus,” I lied.
Walking out, she looked back at me one last time. A moment later, the door closed and opened and closed again as I let it go. The sound of the revving engine faded into oblivion.
I breathed in, trying to take in her scent as much as possible. Stepping out into the world, I smiled. Atreyee, it’s the name of a river. We’d always say that we’d be together; Atreyee, a river, and Sagar, the sea. But not all rivers end up in the sea, some dry up midway, forgotten and absorbed into the sand of life. I started walking; the raindrops now patting my back in consolation.
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Home Coming
by Anindita Bose
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The door
was open. The home belonged to a family living in Calcutta for seventy years,
and built by a couple who came from the border of Bangladesh at the dawn of
Indian freedom. Why the home was built in the first place has an interesting
story. One evening, while they were sitting together in their rented house the
wife, Ashima told her husband that they must build a home.
"Why?
You know we have a family of five brothers, two sisters and I am the earning
member. We also have our own children. A house means money..." the husband
said in a serious tone.
"No,
not a house. A home. We need it for our children. Tell me something, would you
enter a big home while passing by it on a random day?" Ashima asked. Her
eyes were curious to know what her husband thought.
"Never,
if I do not know the owner!" Sometimes he knew that his wife imagined the
future and lived far away in time. He believed in her wisdom.
She said
after a while, "If we have a home, magnificent and majestic one, even if
we do not have enough money to eat good food and I feed our children plants
from the garden, isn't it true that people will think twice before entering our
home?"
He looked
into her eyes. She knew how to convince him, "Yes, they will even in the
years to come my love..."
And now
that home was waiting, the door was open. The clouds rolled by, the birds came
and go, the sun rose and fell each day. The children has grown, some left and
some stayed behind. The photographs of the couple could be seen at various
walls of the home and perhaps through them their essence remained.
It was
three months that the family came to know about tumour; not that they were not
aware but no one in the family suffered before. Also who would research on
something that has not affected them personally. Now they knew that there are
various kinds of tumours and their stages. For the treatment of the loved one
they went from one hospital to the other and finally felt helpless when they
realized that Calcutta needed a revolution in the arena of hospital management.
It was 2018 and perhaps there were places on Earth that had already been kind
enough to take care of the patients afflicted by the modern diseases. However,
there are different stories in the world and this one was a common one.
The loved
one got cured in South India, a place that still believed in wisdom and love.
But the journey of any medical care can never be easy. And for days the home
remained silent. The travel from Bengal to South was a mammoth task and the
middle class family struggled to get back to the mundane life again. The home
witnessed the entry of a crisis, while the family members went through the
cycles of life.
Once the
home had people, there were laughter and joy, there were fights and
accusations, there were dreams and sorrows and in three months the voices
turned into whispers. The son of the couple was the father now and he always
wanted authority. Everyone must listen to the head of the family no matter
what; sometimes the daughter of the family wanted to spread her wings and fly
away. The son of the family married and gave birth to a girl child, the mother
of the family spent her days in her own ways. But the family catastrophe
interchanged all roles and altered the entire story.
The loved
one needed attention and everyone scattered to bring a change soon. Human cells
die when they grow old or when their work is done and in their places take
birth new cells; nature has made human a phoenix within and without. And when
that family needed to solve the complication, their genetic function went
through a rebirth and each one transformed in different ways.
The father
had always thought that no one would ever leave home. It was after all a home
built with care and meant to be always the same. He took pride in his ancestral
creation and how none could build a home like that one. And after three months
he realized how life played games. But life and living were not illusions.
We are
perhaps those simple cells within our skins that silently keep working, living,
dying and continuing the cycle. The father came out of the door each day and
waited for them to come back. He stayed alone in the home since the loved one
was going through the journey of healing.
GITANJALI
A story by Amita Roy
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The sky was as gloomy as Ishani’s mind
perhaps a shade gloomier. It was December, an unlikely time for a rough
weather. Ishani had taken the flight from Paris to Bombay and was now waiting
impatiently for the flight to Kolkata. She sat there unmindful, depressed,
drunk in nostalgic stupor. The announcement of her flight went unheeded too.
She was jolted out of her reverie when the airport official came up and asked
about her flight. Once on her seat after boarding she again became oblivious of
her surroundings, her mind straying in the maze of memories at her ancestral
home-I, Deshbandhu lane, Howrah.
This place, her ancestral abode since four
generations had embraced the bowered pathways of her childhood, adolescence and
youth till the age of twenty two. A couple of weeks back she had gone to Paris
college of Art on a scholarship to pursue her post graduation in Fine Arts. She
knew that to be away from the love and care of a close knit family, a set up
she was used to for twenty two long years would be an arduous task in terms of
relocating both geographically and emotionally. In this secure nestled life in
Kolkata the strongest link was her grandfather Sachindranath Gangly, the six feet
towering personality and head of the joint family. To question his decisions
was blasphemous, to deny his ways irreverent.
He was the gem of a person. A perfect grandfather to the children and a
demigod to the others.
Though all the grandchildren were equally
loved by grandfather there was a streak of biasness in his dealings with
Ishani, (lovingly called Ishu) Sachindra’s eldest son’s first offspring. The bonus love and affection showered on Ishu
was attributed to the fact that she was the first grandchild to be born in the
family. But there was another story alive in the household. Sachindranath was a
widower and had lost his spouse at the age of thirty two. She had died while
giving birth to her fourth child who was still born. There was a portrait of
the young couple taken in Bourn and Shepherd studio in Kolkata sometime in mid
forties of the last century. But with time the portrait had weathered, faded;
the remnant belied the ineffable beauty of Ishani’s grandmother. Nevertheless,
the vermillion bindi poised on her square forehead between the arched eyebrows,
placid eyes and a hint of smile on her lips, the sari draped over her head lent
an unmistakable air of gracefulness to this mysterious beauty who held sway
over her handsome husband’s heart. When she died Ishani’s father was only ten
years old. The younger sons were eight and five respectively. All that the trio
could recollect about their mother was that she was the most beautiful mother
on earth, affectionate, soft-spoken, one who sang songs and lullabies to them,
an angel who forgave their mischief making and took care of their needs. After her demise she often visited her
darlings in their dreams singing a lullaby on a dry river bed which sounded like
a dirge. The youngest son often dreamt that she was stranded on it frantically
trying to reach out to her children and he woke up sobbing in his dream.
Ishani’s grandfather who at that time was young, handsome and with a government
job qualified as an eligible groom. Many fathers didn’t hesitate to give away
their daughters to him by marriage. But the thought of a second marriage didn’t
strike the right chord in Sachindranath. A stepmother looking after his dear
sons was the remotest thing he could conceive. How could he forgo the happiness
of his children for his own? No amount of coaxing from his elders, cajoling
from friends could wean him to a new conjugal life. Finally all speculations were
smothered when Sachindranath’s unmarried sister residing in the family took up
the responsibility of raising her three nephews. She proved to be no less than
a mother to them.
There was another story doing its round in
the family. Ishani had heard from her mother that the actual reason for her
grandpa’s reluctance for a second marriage was his deep love for his doe eyed
wife Shantibala as long as she had lived. It persisted undiminished even after
her death. When Ishani was born the family was rife with the word that
Sachindranath’s wife was reborn. True to this widespread belief, as little Ishu
grew up she developed traits and idiosyncrasies reminiscent of her deceased
grandmother Shantibala. She would sit with her legs outstretched, display a distinct
dimple on only the left cheek as she broke into peals of laughter, make a sulky
pout to convey displeasure. Above the entire square forehead, placid eyes like
the summer pool, gait; everything was strikingly similar. She took after the
lady who had died sixteen years before, being almost a replica. The resemblance
became unmistakably conspicuous as she blossomed into a beautiful teenager. So
it was no wonder that Sachindranath bestowed inordinate favour on Ishani.
Being brought up in a joint family Ishani,
the only daughter of the eldest son of Sachindranath not only had a lavishly
pampered childhood but a wholesome exposure to sibling love and bonding.
Sachindranath had instilled in the children the cohesive magic of the quality
of giving and sharing. Ishu had an inherent passion for colours. It found
frequent outbursts in multicoloured scribbles of crayon on paper, walls, furniture
when she was a mere toddler. The scribbles gradually matured to formed
delineations on her drawing book. Sachindra, quick enough to reckon the budding
artist in her put her under proper tutelage. One significant incident was
etched in Ishani’s mind. It was her grandfather’s birthday and she was barely
six years old. Early on the winter morning she plucked two roses from their garden,
and stealthily walked up to her grandfather’s room. She hid behind the door of
the room waiting expectantly for him to wake up. The chanting of Gayatri mantra
gave her the inkling that Grandfather was awake and would soon leave bed. She
peeped in and saw him sitting upright on the bed with eyes closed as if in a
trance. On opening his eyes, he found the little darling at the doorway, arms
folded at the back to conceal something.
“Good morning Didibhai, why are you up so
early?” he greeted.
With
hesitant but hasty steps Ishu approached him, got up on the bed, threw her arms
around his neck, gifted the flowers and
wished, “ Happy birthday Dadu.”
Sachindranath with a twinkle in his eyes
scanned his heartthrob, trying to fathom her ecstasy, smiled and kissed her.
“From where did you get these flowers
Ishu?” he asked.
Pointing at
the garden she mumbled, “From there.”
Sachindranath lifted her adorable grandchild
on his lap and gently said that she shouldn’t pluck flowers from the tree. They
were God’s gift of love to the trees and for people to admire and find
pleasure. Shaken and disheartened for little did she understand grandpa the
visionary at such an early age she flung an innocent question at him, “What is
a gift Dadu?”
“Gift is something which we willfully and
lovingly give to another person without expecting anything in return. Why don’t
you draw a card and gift me dear?”
Thus the initiation to the practical
aspect of life started. Thereafter Ishani would lovingly design cards or draw
pictures as gifts on the birthday of each member of the family young or old
every year, desirous of a peck on her cheek as return gift.
The Spartan room of Sachindranath was
situated just near the staircase which marked the end of Sachinranath’s
territory and the beginning of Ishani’s Chor Dadu’s (Sachindranath’s younger
brother, Rathindranath) property at 1, Deshbandhu lane Howrah. Sachindranath’s
room consisted of a bed, a worn out leather suitcase, a huge trunk which Ishu jokingly
referred to as Pandora’s chest, a wall cupboard, an armchair and a table. Among
all these items the most valuable item to Sachindranath was the huge trunk
always kept under lock and key. It was a treasure trove packed with files,
important papers, sundry gifts, knick knacks, the portrait of the young
handsome man and his beautiful wife freezed for eternity. There was a wealth of
books inside it as Sachindranath was a voracious reader. Ishani knew the exact location of each item
inside this treasure chest as she was the only one who took a keen interest in
her grandpa’s obsession with the trunk, pestering him with innumerable
questions about the contents. One day while dusting the books kept inside the
trunk, Ishu saw his grandfather lovingly wiping dust from a certain book named
‘Gitanjali’. Ishani was then barely ten
years old but grandfather’s demeanour betrayed an emotion which she even at
that tender age could decipher as devotional longing for an object of deep
love. Looking up at little Ishu calmly, his fingers tremulous over a certain
name on the flyleaf he said, “Can you read this Ishu?” She spelt and read out
two names written on it in Bangla, Shantibala and Sachindranath. There was also
a date written on it. It was 25/05/1947.
“Excellent!” said Sachindra, “Well,
this was a gift to your grandmother Shantibala from me on her birthday. As long
as I live, this book will be with me. After my death you will be the owner of
this book. Read this book written by Rabindranath Tagore when you grow up.”
Too
young to grapple with the intensity and significance of the words uttered by Sachindranath
she burst into tears and hugging him sobbed inconsolably, “No Dadu! You will
never die…You will stay with me forever.” It was summer, the room felt hot and stifling.
An avalanche of sorrow descended upon her. She looked up; her eyes met the date
on the calendar. The day was May 25, circled in red.
When Ishani was about nine years old a
son was born to Sachindra’s youngest son. The children of the family were
overjoyed to have this new bundle of joy amidst them. But soon the joy in the
family evanesced giving place to consternation and concern. The child named
Chhottu hardly communicated with the other. His responses when the children
played with him were inadequate. Communication rift, apparent insensitiveness
signified that all was not well with the little child. And so it was. He was diagnosed with marginal autism. Sachindranath
embraced the child with profound love and care, trying all means to ensure a
normal life for Chhottu. Ishu di’s heart melted for this little cousin whom she
doted upon. A girdle of love entwined the trio, Sachindra, Ishani and Chhottu,
the effect of which was far-reaching. Gradually Chhottu came to know about the
contents of Grandfather’s chest, his love for books, the portrait and
‘Gitanjali’. One thing was more than obvious; Chottu loved to be in the close
company of his grandfather and Ishu didi.
From the airport to 1, Deshbandhu Lane,
Howrah took over a couple of hours. All along Ishani had been cursing herself
for leaving her country to acquire a foreign degree. She couldn’t reconcile
herself with the fact that she was the cause of such an irreparable loss; the
sudden heart attack leading to the death of her grandfather two days after she
had left. Was it that grandpa couldn’t bear the sorrow of a separation the
second time? The first one was an eternal separation from Shantibala years
back. Now it was Ishani moving away to a distant country. She couldn’t forgive
herself! She remembered Sachindranath’s last words made in jest, “Good bye
Didibhai, don’t come back strapped with a monsieur…I will wait for you here.” On receiving the heartbreaking news, Ishani
could not air dash back immediately. She had just reported for her session at
the college. It was not before almost a couple of weeks that she could make all
arrangements and book a passage back.
In the afternoon, Ishu dragged herself
towards Sachindranath’s room. She expected everything to be intact except the
age old owner of the room. But to her utmost surprise Ishani found the room
starkly vacant, denuded of even the gigantic trunk which she lovingly called Pandora’s
chest. Painfully balancing herself on a sense of unfathomable void she ran to
her mother and demanded, “Who has done it Ma? Where are all the belongings of
Dadu? Where is the huge trunk?”
Her mother in a hushed tone tried to calm
down her daughter and explained, “It was your uncle’s (Chhoto Dadu’s son) doing
Ishu. After his son’s marriage he had an eye on Sachindranath’s room, always
complaining of paucity of space. So just after the rituals and last ceremonies
all the furniture together with the chest were sold by your uncle. We chose to
keep away from dissent or any sort of interference for peace. You very well
know how things are in a shared property and that room had always been a bone
of contention.”
“But where are the contents of the chest, I
mean the books?” she yelled.
“Calm down Ishu, we just didn’t
intervene. You know your uncle very well. May be they have been sold too.”
“Sold! How ‘Gitanjali’ could be sold!
It was Dadu’s life, his soul, a gift I would inherit after her death, a
confluence of love. Oh my God! Am I living with a bunch of fools? How could one
be so insensitive?” Ishani broke down.
Madly she rushed to look for Chhottu
the only person who could provide succor at this moment and probably some
information too. She peeped in all the rooms but the little master was nowhere
to be found. Emotionally famished, she headed towards the attic where she
wished to be cooped up in seclusion. Setting her foot on the terrace she spied
a figure couched in a corner. Wasn’t it Chhottu? Disturbed by the sound of
footsteps, Chhottu looked in her direction. Their eyes met probably the first
time in a meaningful communication. An uncanny spell made Ishu follow his cousin
who rose up and went towards the attic. And there lay “GITANJALI” in a corner,
hidden away from public gaze and maddening meanness! Handing over the book to
her he said, “Ishu di, I know this book is for you. So when all the books were
being taken away by a person I managed to pick this up and keep it aside for you”.
Joy and gratitude overwhelmed Ishani.
Clasping the retrieved treasure in one hand and clinging on to Chhottu in an irresistible hug she scanned her cousin
who was on the threshold of adolescence, diagnosed with a development disorder.
Ishani looked deep into his eyes. She read
the distinct twinkle of a jestful Sachindranath gleaming in his eyes. The
requiem “….I will wait for you here” buzzed in her ears.
November 2018 issue
---------------------------------------------------------THE JOURNEY OF A BUBBLE ,
By Debjani Mukherjee,
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The hallway before the Principal's office was shadowy or at least Rishi felt so. Class teacher Mr. Swami was waiting in front of the office door. Rishi could almost hear his own heartbeat. His legs were shivering and it felt almost impossible to him, to cover the distance of the hallway which will be no more than mere six yards. What he did was wrong he knew, but the pressure was unbearable. The tension and the fear, he carried day and night was wrenching his heart out, making him bleed from within.
The shiny wooden door of the Principal’s office was heavy to push or at least Rishi felt so. The Principal Mr. R.K. Chatterjee was sitting on his chair on the other side of the huge mahogany table. Soumik felt suffocated even inside the well- aired AC room. Mr. Chatterjee kept looking at him without uttering a word for few moments. Rishi felt as though he were about to faint.
The heavy voice of Mr. Chatterjee rumbled inside his office, “Do you realize what you did Rishi?” He slowly nodded a yes keeping his eyes on the floor. “You know the rules, right? So now you can no longer be a part of this school. Tomorrow your parents will be called to school and will be handed over your rustication letter. You may go now.” Mr. Chatterjee rendered his decision with the firmness of a death sentence. Rishi slowly went back to the class. His eyes were busting but he stopped himself from crying as he was a boy and boys should not cry. But, he was quivering with fear. He knew his sin won’t be forgiven. His father, a professor of Mathematics in a renowned college of the city would never accept a cheat for a son.
“Discipline is the stepping stone to success”. Rishi had been taught this repeatedly since a very early age. But few hearts are born wild. No matter how much you try to discipline them, they always yearn to dance to the rhythm of their free will. Rishi could never balance himself on the taut wires of life.
“Get up in the dawn, study with utter concentration, do useless things like bathing and eating fast , without wasting any time, go to school, study hard, come back and go to guitar class then to tuition, then do your homework and go to bed early.” His father gave him this unerring formula of success long ago which he always failed to follow properly. His study books never talked to him, never gave his heart a tug. He read them repeatedly but the words somehow remained lifeless. But only poems used to allure his senses. He used to feel the shades of the poems dancing live on his skin as if he were a giant piano and the poems were creating symphony, leaving their foot mark on the keys of his mind. He even used to write them sometimes, as painting his feelings with words on the paper used to render him ecstatic. He used to love ornamenting his poems as a newly wedded bride. He loved flowing in the azure of words and then rain down on the pages of his notebooks. But of course he used to do all these in secret, he couldn’t let his father know how careless he was being, by wasting his time crafting words.
“Get up in the dawn, study with utter concentration, do useless things like bathing and eating fast , without wasting any time, go to school, study hard, come back and go to guitar class then to tuition, then do your homework and go to bed early.” His father gave him this unerring formula of success long ago which he always failed to follow properly. His study books never talked to him, never gave his heart a tug. He read them repeatedly but the words somehow remained lifeless. But only poems used to allure his senses. He used to feel the shades of the poems dancing live on his skin as if he were a giant piano and the poems were creating symphony, leaving their foot mark on the keys of his mind. He even used to write them sometimes, as painting his feelings with words on the paper used to render him ecstatic. He used to love ornamenting his poems as a newly wedded bride. He loved flowing in the azure of words and then rain down on the pages of his notebooks. But of course he used to do all these in secret, he couldn’t let his father know how careless he was being, by wasting his time crafting words.
The school peon came to his class and took him to the school bus, as it was waiting only for him to board before departing. Rishi sat beside the window and the bus started moving. Rishi felt as if the wheels were rolling over his quivering heart like a road roller breaking his ribs, punching his lungs making him gasp for breath. The bus ran through the busy roads of the city. Rishi saw mothers holding their children’s hands and taking them back to their home. Seeing those little children, wearing school bags heavier than themselves, hobbling and chattering beside their mother, Rishi remember how his mother used to take him back home from school. How sometimes they used to eat phuchkas (little hollow balls made out of flour filled with mashed potatoes and tangy tamarind water) together, or sometimes ice candies. Orange, green, red, yellow ice candies and how their tongue used to get colored by them and how they both used to laugh and laugh showing each other their tongues. Maa had changed a lot lately, now she mostly remains serious with him. Her expressions silently kept him reminded of his failures all the time. He missed his Maa, missed those laughing and giggling together moments , those little kisses she used to imprint on his cheeks every now and then, he missed it all, but never told her.
“A Cloud withdrew from the Sky
Superior Glory be
But that Cloud and its Auxiliaries
Are forever lost to me”
His flesh started burning with the ruthless rays of the sun . He pulled out a notebook and a pen from his school bag, and wrote :
“You brought me to the earth enduring pain,
but I am the futile son who rendered you even more
You remained awake at nights sitting beside my bed in my ailment
but I am your shoddy offspring failing all your dreams
You cooked for me, you lived for me, you thought about me day and night,
but I am your incapable lad, could give you nothing more than love.
I love you Maa, love your affection hidden in your little coconut laddoos
But I am your useless son inefficient to requite you the mellow of life.
I am sorry Maa, but I Love you”.
He stopped for a while looking at the shiny parallel lines beyond the bushy green wild shrubs. Then he walked to them and kept down his bag beside them. He stepped between those two shiny steel rails and started walking on the wooden bearers keeping his eyes to the infinity where the sun was setting in the west. The crown of a train appeared there and the uproarious hammering sound of the tracks rumbled on his heart. He started breathing heavy and his body shook like a beheaded lamb on the sacrifice stone. He closed his eyes and the train horn roared like a ghoul.
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(The Journey of a Bubble, a short story by Debjani Mukherjee is a peep into the psyche of a school kid, caught between the aspirations of his parents, their dreams for him and his own passion for poetry. The writer has aptly described the boy’s fears, his apprehensions, and his guilt at not being able to toe his parents’ line. What she describes so poignantly, is every student’s nightmare – the unbearable pressure of tuitions, parental expectation, peer pressure, and one’s own dreams. In Rishi’s dreams physics, chemistry and mathematics don’t figure at all, only poetry does. This story, makes one wonder at the folly of parental expectations, sending a shiver up one’s spine as one realizes that not being able to follow their dreams, many kids, have resorted to drastic action. )
Dr. Santosh Bakaya [editorial comment]
Dr. Santosh Bakaya [editorial comment]
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THE ONLY SOLUTION,
by Jagari Mukherjee,
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It was a chilly winter afternoon.
Najma, a 55-year old widow, was alternately puffing on a cigarette and drinking
her coffee. Najma was thin and petite, with dyed blue-black shoulder-length
hair, and sharp features. She wore a plum-colored jacket over a light green
sweater, black jeans and dark pink lipstick that left its marks both on the
cigarette and the coffee mug. Today, her mind was in a turmoil. She mused
endlessly as she sipped her hot, sugared drink, and thought how she had not
been able to kick her cigarette addiction since the past twenty-five years. She
wondered if anyone gets through life without an addiction, whether it is one as
innocuous as coffee or deadly as cigarettes. And the pressing topic of the day
kept unsettling her – Hayat’s visit, due in an hour’s time. An impending event
that seemed to fill her with eager anticipation but also dread. She put her
coffee mug down, and finished her cigarette. And remembered the greatest
addiction of her life – her late husband, Asif.
She had met Asif through common friends
at university. He had movie star looks, and seemed to think Najma was the
heroine to pursue. Najma was flattered, and slowly, overwhelmed. She soon
developed an addiction to his beautiful brown eyes and soft auburn hair and the
sunny smile that melted her heart every time. He spoke in a soothing voice, and
showered her with gifts in the early days of their courtship. If they had even
a minor disagreement, he made up for it by buying her a red rose. Even her
friends were enamoured of him. Whenever he visited her at her hostel, her
friends ran to the window to catch a glimpse of him. He was the owner of
peerless charm.
As far as his friends were concerned,
Asif introduced her to his roommates, as well as to his best friend, Zahra. She
was a lady a few years senior to them, plump with long silky tresses and a
sharp sense of style. She wore trendy silk and muslin tops and colorful
scarves. Every time Najma and Asif visited her home, she made the tastiest
meals effortlessly within a short span of time. Zahra’s husband worked in
Iran while she had come with her seven-year old daughter Hayat to India for
higher studies. Najma admired how Zahra managed the duties of motherhood,
household chores and her studies with ease and grace. Najma considered Zahra to
be a good friend. And Zahra was friendly beyond measure. She would welcome
Najma by holding her hand and giving her a hug whenever she came inside her
home and when they parted for the day.
Zahra’s daughter, Hayat, was extremely
fond of Asif and Najma. Hayat was a beautiful little girl, with almond-shaped
eyes, skin the color of butter and a rosy tint to her cheeks. She had a fringe
across her forehead, which made her look like a Russian doll. With Zahra’s
permission, Najma would take Hayat out with her to amusement parks and for
shopping, buying toys and chocolates for her. Apart from her cuteness, Hayat
was smarter than an average girl of her age. She could paint beautifully and
gifted some of her paintings to Najma. The only time she showed petulance was
when Najma prepared to leave their home for the day. Hayat would cling to Najma
and throw a tantrum till Zahra intervened.
These early visits to Zahra’s house
were events that Najma treasured in her memory. Zahra and Hayat made her feel
as if she were a part of their family.
Najma’s thoughts went on to the
subsequent events. She realised that she wanted more coffee. She went to the
kitchen and made herself a strong black coffee this time. She pondered whether
to put a couple of sugar cubes in it, then decided against it. She wanted a
cigarette again, too. She lit one.
After two years of courtship, Asif and
Najma decided to get married. They eloped as Najma’s family was against their
relationship as they felt Asif was isolating her from them and Najma had
stopped focussing on her studies and career.
Asif told Najma that he wanted to do
his master’s, and would Najma help him out with the fees? Najma paid his fees
and rented a flat, and they started staying together.
It was after four months of marriage
that Najma began to perceive that Asif had changed. He began to come home late
at night, telling her that he was studying at the university library. Then one
night, he did not come home at all, and she could not reach him on his mobile.
He called her at 3 AM, and said that he was at a friend’s place to study for
exams. It then became a regular feature. Asif stayed out almost every night,
alleging that he was studying for a test, an assignment, his exams.
It was only when that Najma saw his
report card, she knew that he was lying. He, a person with above-average
intelligence, had failed miserably in all his subjects. Shocked, she checked
with his friends who were allegedly his study buddies. They denied that he had
been to their place to study. Then she decided to check his phone while he went
to the washroom. And found out that he was having an affair with Zahra. Her
head reeled.
When he came out of the washroom, she
confronted him immediately. Her anger knew no bounds. Giving up her own dreams
of studying abroad, she had married him. She had paid his fees and supported
him financially for his studies while she worked hard at her office. Only to be
rewarded by his lies and his disloyalty.
Asif did not deny his affair, but he
blamed her for it.
“Look at you,” he mocked, “You have no
sense of style. You look like a village girl, while Zahra dresses like a high-society
movie star. She has a fair complexion, while you are dark. And she cooks so
well. You can’t even chop vegetables properly” and so forth.
From that day onwards, Najma’s life
changed. She and Asif fought with each other every day. Asif didn’t graduate
from his programme but graduated from emotional to physical abuse. Yet, she
could not think of leaving Asif. After all, he was her addiction, and she had
married him against her family wishes. She had never experienced such grief and
jealousy in her life before. She wanted a child badly. Here, it seemed as if
Asif had almost formed a family with Zahra and Hayat. He often went out with
them together, and onlookers thought that Hayat was his daughter and Zahra, not
Najma, was his wife. Najma’s visits to Zahra’s home had stopped after she got
married. Zahra no longer called her or acknowledged her existence in Asif’s
life.
“I will divorce you if you fight with
me,” Asif would threaten, knowing her weakness fully well.
“No, please don’t” she would plead,
falling at his feet, “I cannot live without you.”
“Pay the fees for my backlog exam
then,” he said.
She did as she was told.
One morning, Najma received a call from
the police. Asif was dead. Asif had been found dead at Zahra’s home. Zahra
and Hayat were missing. Najma rushed to the scene to find Asif’s body
sprawled across the floor in the bedroom. The post-mortem reports revealed
poison in his system. There was nothing to be done. There was not enough
evidence. Zahra was absconding, and she was never found. And she was an Iranian
citizen who had come to India to study.
It took Najma many years to get over
this surreal experience. She returned to her parents’ home, confessed the story
of her miserable life to her parents and began anew. Slowly, she rebuilt her
life, piece by piece. She got a new job. She considered remarriage bur
refrained, choosing her independence to the suffocating bond of marriage. When
her parents passed away and she found herself alone, she took up smoking to
alleviate the added stress.
Now at the age of 55, her life had some
semblance of normalcy, supported by coffee and cigarettes. And then suddenly, a
message from Hayat. Hayat lived in Canada now with her mother. They had
immigrated a couple of years after they had abruptly left India for Iran on
that fateful night
Soon, a regular communication was
established between Najma and Hayat. The latter, now in her thirties, was a
successful surgeon. And she had to come to Najma’s city for a conference. She
asked Najma if they could meet up, and Najma invited her home.
The doorbell rang. There was Hayat at
the door – a tall, stately, beautiful lady. The two women enjoyed a sumptuous
lunch prepared by Najma’s cook for this occasion. They talked about many things. Najma asked
about Zahra, and was told that Zahra was reunited with her husband, who later
joined them in Canada.
Najma felt a surge of bitterness. Her
own life was spent alone, while Zahra, who was responsible for her husband’s
death, had the good fortune to enjoy a family life. Was there no justice in the
world? However, she did not want to broach the topic of Asif with Hayat, who
was only an innocent little girl that time.
“You’re thinking about Asif, aunty,
isn’t it so?” Hayat asked slowly.
Najma thought for a while, then
answered. “I know why he was murdered. Your mom murdered him.”
Hayat answered, “What are you talking
about, aunty? Tell me, why you think he was murdered.”
“Because perhaps your mom asked him to
leave me, but he would not because I was his golden goose. So, your mom killed
him in frustration,” Najma replied.
Hayat was silent for a moment. Then a
shadow passed over her face. “Is that what you think, aunty? That mom would
murder the man she was addicted to?”
Najma looked at her in surprise. And
then comprehension dawned, and her surprise turned into shock. She had been
living under an illusion for twenty-five years.
“Why did you do it, Hayat?” she asked,
her voice shaking.
Hayat’s voice began to rise in a tenor
of excitement. “Because he was molesting me, aunty. You and my mom were not
enough for that monster. He was addicted to anything female. Mom trusted him
with me and often let him pick me up from school in his car, or left me in his
care while she went to class. He was a demon…. so, that evening, I mixed rat
poison in his food, while mom’s back was turned. And I have no regrets: I would
gladly do it again. It was the only solution.”
Najma covered her face with her hands.
She remained like that for five minutes, and then looked at Hayat. When she
spoke, it was in her every day normal voice.
“You did the right thing. Now, I have a
headache, and I need a cigarette.”
Hayat smiled. “If you don’t mind,
aunty, I’ll have one too.”
(A very well crafted story of a woman, who after eloping with her boyfriend, finds herself at ther receiving end of physical and emotional violence. A story of conjugal discord turning into a murder mystery)
Dr. Santosh Bakaya ( editorial comment)
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(A very well crafted story of a woman, who after eloping with her boyfriend, finds herself at ther receiving end of physical and emotional violence. A story of conjugal discord turning into a murder mystery)
Dr. Santosh Bakaya ( editorial comment)
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THE INTRUDER
by Sudeshna Mukherjee,
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C….R….E….A……K
Creak........the gentle evening breeze was nudging the terrace door as it swung to and fro gently banging on the threshold irritatingly. Meera, the senior citizen who lived with her more senior husband, Gopal, on the top floor was feeling bothered at the persistent noise. She thought the door and her joints sailed on the same boat….they creaked whenever they moved …huh !
Uffff ! The watchmen were so careless these days , she thought , to leave the terrace door open !
Dusk had set in and was wiping off the pink to let the blue seep in. Here and there the glittering stars were twinkling their joy in the most bright manner.
When would Gopal return? Not restricted with arthritis like Meera, Gopal was in the habit of going for a walk in the society garden and having a chat session with his old cronies. Normally Meera would finish doing her evening chores in this period so that when Gopal returned she would get the latest updates, the juicy tidbits and then watch TV. On the weekends their children, settled abroad, would Skype, which would be the highlight of their dull existence .
When would Gopal return? Not restricted with arthritis like Meera, Gopal was in the habit of going for a walk in the society garden and having a chat session with his old cronies. Normally Meera would finish doing her evening chores in this period so that when Gopal returned she would get the latest updates, the juicy tidbits and then watch TV. On the weekends their children, settled abroad, would Skype, which would be the highlight of their dull existence .
On that particular evening there was a nip in the air which aggravated her stiffness. Feeling uncomfortable she limped to the main door and hollered loudly, "Who's there? Kindly close the terrace door."
The persistent banging was getting on her nerves. She waited for a few minutes. There was no response !
She was the only occupant on her floor. Taking the names of the young couple residing below she hollered once more with the same result. Hobbling towards the lobby she peered down at the emptiness.
Ohhh,when would Gopal return ! She was feeling angry and scared at once. Everyday the Newspaper headlines screamed about attacks on senior citizens. Recently there had been a spate of robberies too. Really the world was becoming impossible to live. She shouted once more, "Hello! Who's there ?" Again there was no response except the nagging creak/bang of the door. She looked towards the terrace door and stood stalk still . Did she see correctly or was it a trick ! She saw a shadow move .
Hobbling back she returned and bolted the door from inside . The thudding of her heart beat in rhythm with the banging door .
Weighing her options she went to the intercom. Much to her consternation it was still dead. It had been for a few days.They had complained too and were reassured that it will be done. Angrily she thought "WHEN? After they were killed by the intruders?"
Bang ! This time the door thudded louder. She could feel her blood pressure shooting up.
Mustering courage she picked up her walking stick and opened the door. Just then she saw a shadow pass the terrace door again . Stuttering she asked,"Who's there ?"
"It's me Nandan ", came the meek voice from a floor below.
Seizing the opportunity, she called him up and quickly apprised him of the situation. Being the timid obedient boy that he was Nandan ran down and knocked on some doors. Quite a few people collected on Meera's floor. She had a field day telling them about the dire situation, adding her two bits in embroidering the scary details she perceived.
All agreed that the situation was potent and one had to tread carefully. They all conferred then shouted in unison," Who's there?" They made quite a din only to be met with silence and more banging.
Surprising himself more than others Nandan volunteered to go to the terrace. Contributing to the cause Meera offered her walking stick telling Nandan all the vulnerable spots of the human anatomy. Nervousness swept over Nandan like flood. He was never the intrepid one. Cursing and kicking himself at his own audacity, he took his own sweet time to reach the threshold of the terrace ,his each unsure step inundated by a barrage of instructions from the residents which made him more nervous.
Darkness enveloped him as he crossed over the threshold. Nervously Meera and others strained their ears to listen but could only hear mumblings.
Time stood still !!!
All were perspiring profusely deciding on the next course of action.
Just then Nandan emerged from the shadows, holding the hands of a tottering old gentleman both wearing a beaming beatific smile,one albeit a toothless one.
Nandan, now a hero, in his own eyes laughed and elaborated,"Grandfather visiting 201, stone deaf, couldn't hear anything."
By now Gopal had returned.They had a good laugh. Relieved Meera invited all of them over for tea and some fritters.This became the hot topic of conversation in the building for quite a few days.
Now a days Nandan can be seen walking with a certain jauntiness and a swagger.