Letter to a Room

Hey,

With the beginning of this year, you happened to me -- a nightmare I had to encounter as was justly made aware from the other room. All of your seventeen by twenty two feet, clubbed into petty cubicles and pettier personalities tormented me to a devouring extreme. The moment the door opens, your hostility greets me with a demand, perhaps conveying that expecting anything else was my crime.

Really, what were you? We will not speak about your worst. I am leaving you in minutes and I do not want to carry a bitter aftertaste. However, it will not be too detrimental if you regularly remember that you house souls, and couple of them, extremely good ones. Owing to your nature they are drying up too. They do not deserve your nastiness, your dirt, your filth. Souls are nurtured in rooms. You do not do that. There is no warmth in you. Grow up, you know. Look at the souls who have lent me their chairs, their cubicles, their computers. Learn.

Having said all of the above, I have survived you. Sometimes with my defeatist surrender, most other times with my victorious madness, I have emerged more humane than ever. I am a winner as I leave you with this letter, which I am sure no one else ever has, or will. When others desert you, read this. Read and find some warmth, which, in spite of myself, I leave for you. For I am, unlike you, a room of gratitude. I will not miss you. Feels so bloody good to say so aloud. Utterly despicable that you are, I will not miss you. 

Bye!

KS. 

Speechless Notes

Iravati visited my dreams last night. In her flowing blue skirt and white racer back and hair worn open, she looked the Iravati of my childhood. If Ammi were given a chance to approve of a bride for me, it would, without question, agree upon her. Abbu had always been a fan of the lively child next door, hankering on his doorstep after biryani smell. The walls of this house, which were once called 'ours' till Ammi and I moved out, were draped in renowned artists and one of Iravati's masterpiece gifted to Ammi and Abbu on their anniversary. At age eight, she may not have understood what an anniversary might mean, yet she created an intense image of a bright crayon blue flower swimming in a light pencil blue sky. It is a pleasant painting to have lived with for these many years. The skirt she wore in the dream looked like it belonged to the painting. She longed for the stage she said. I wish.

My name is Kabir Suleiman and I never thought I would take up the pen again, having taken up the camera. I am fairly known for deftly capturing the unpredictabilty of the wild. I wanted to be a fashion photographer though. And gave it up because all my building life I imagined Iravati modelling for my shoot, in the most intriguing of wears. I cannot fake it anymore. She has pierced into my very being with an imagination so fierce, that it captivates the real. I wish to see her set the stage on flight and ignite the audience with the same passion she arouses in me. 

I want to sketch her in a dance-drama, flowing through the stage, as speechless rivers do.  

Iravati's Promise

The stage is set in an effect of drowsy moonshine. She enters with diffused spotlight on either side, gliding through the laps of the mighty Himalayas, a proud secret. Proud of her entity, yet hidden. She is dressed in a soothing blue, sparkling with diamond dews. Crossing over to the other end of the stage she suddenly rises up to the orange of an explosive photo-shoot, brash. The changeover from dance to ramp is provoked by the rhythm of drums and the centre of focus on her. The slits in her orange dress confiding more than giving away. Iravati walks up, does not smile, stares forward -- an arrogant stare -- and turns to walk back. As she pauses the light diffuses. The music changes to the soft tones of the windchimes as do the light. Her face too. Softly she looks at the other end of the stage, the light only on her eyes now. A dead brown, they are awakened. The other side of her violet soul is floating. 

We see tears she does not allow to fall off, her pride intact. We hear a whisper, a promise, as she walks back, one assured step following the drum and after the assured other. Her voice has the free spin her movements do not. The light returns to the enticing moonshine, heavily diffused. Infused with shadows and whispers.

Iravati is too difficult a subject to be showcased on the stage. Her speechlessness renders her voices that are not often heard, they are seen. In dreams. I am Kabir Suleiman and I failed to stage her. But then, who can? She flows through my veins and will not empty until I slit them wide. The notes of her wings cannot be captured into a script. Iravati flows, she flies.

A Space of Shadows

Iravati's Face:

Kabir Suleiman was the half-yearly neighbour. One look at him during the vacation and she was instantly catapulted to the gates of desire. Each awaited moment only enhanced the attraction. For eight long years she had been harbouring the silence of a fool, the silence of the cowardly, the silence of the window bay and the silence of the terrace corner. She turned twenty nine this June. The nameplate outside her door now reads Iravati & Bodhisattwa Mitra. As was expected from the advertising community, they married. He shifted into her flat, allowing for her memories to remain as pungent as ever. With the sea-facing curtain flaying on caffeine clad dusks, Iravati circled the rim of her cup and wondered back to pasts that never wore the colours she saw them in, or traced time forward to intangible spaces left untouched.

Kabir's Face:

Iravati was a sultry skinned, irresistible woman, lapping in the warmth of one Bodhisattwa of the intellectual extravagance. Since the last eight years of his parents' divorce, the only reason he returned to his father's flat, in the name of a vacation, half-yearly, was to try and win over the line of smile to words. Smoky evenings on the terrace were because she was, on the other side, a silhouette of desire. Kabir was thirty two and doing exceeding well in his wildlife photography. His visits were shortened and even more since the year the nameplate outside her door read Iravati & Bodhisattwa Mitra. With his father's death, all that remained of that flat was gone. He put it up for sale and curiously could never be satisfied with the heaviest of offer. One of such a morning of negated negotiations later, he opened his door to Iravati.

Space of Shadows:

Their awkwardness was not unlike those of teenagers, their conversation like an unsure breeze. He agreed to sell her the space. Sell. The word had never once occurred in his wildest musings over Iravati. Buy. The word had never once occurred in her deepest longing for Kabir. The space of togetherness came alive in vacant souls. The wall between the two apartments broke, as a wall came up between silence. Ever frozen. In aching forevers, and the pointed guilt of reticence. It hurt those who left, it hurt those who were left back.

Recipe Corner

It was a day that began with no exception. Arundhati, in her pixie crop and dangerously long danglers smiled in front of the camera. The smile that increased TRPs more than what her recipes did. 

For the past four years, Shayan was the crown prince of the tasteful show Recipe Corner. Having found a job in a better channel and a book-writing proposition to feed, he referred Arundhati Singh, for the show. They were acquaintances of acquired tastes. Her first episode was a hit. She had ideated that he be present too, to pass on the ladle to her, so that she could whip up the batter from there. The static steam that transpired, however, was unmistakeably unmissable. 

The 'contact-us' section was bulldozed immediately with fan mail demanding the restoration of Shayan. Their chemistry as elementary as the dollop of butter lilting away on a frying pan, ready to take in the flavours and give out lingering kitchen smells. Arundhati was happy, Arundhati was angry. Like the fusion excess of a tandoori paneer topping on a pizza, it was not a very satisfying space to be in. She was grateful to Shayan for the break, she doused in his teachings, his touch, she even began caring for him, but she was simply not content. 

In such a condition of thirsty ambition, she began fabricating a recipe for Shayan. Over the ninety days of her joining the show, he had come in twice each month, as a surprise, as a guest, as a cherry on the cake, for the sake of upholding the onwards success. She returned home one of those Thursday nights and devised a concoction, not much different from the Queen Mother of Snow White. She cooked a bengali dinner of hot steamed rice and hilsa in mustard. The hilsa was especially procured from the local market, as one from the first batch of the monsoons. Shayan loved it, coming from a Punjabi girl. He was not quite prepared for the dessert though. 

"Too much sugar arrested his mobility" joked Arundhati as she smiled seriously in front of the camera, the entire spotlight reassuringly resting solely on her for the season. "Eat wisely, dear viewers."

Arundhati Singh gifted him with a Recipe for Disaster. 

Letter to Daughter VII

Ccccccccccccccccc, c-c-c, :)

Chinkipieplumplum, mommy is delighted right now. And she can do nothing better but share it with you, love. You are, after all, mommy's bes-fend. Each unemployed afternoon, each deadline evening, whenever I have written, you have been my first listener. You, in your wide open eyes, gaping at words you have never heard of, you, in your unmanageable curls trying to appear grave, you, in your sleepiness, extremely awakened by the awe of my excitement -- what have you ever gathered, Chinks?

I care not. For, having gathered whatever you may have (or, may not have), you inevitably passed that smile, unusual of a toddler like you. The smile, which like a sponge, soaks in all my doubts. The smile which may be, for all I know, a relief at yet another reading session getting over. Mommy writes, C, and gradually mommy is being read by more than she ever was. What is even surprising is, all that she is writing, is being wholly loved. Loved, C. Loved. Like you love your visits to Granny-D, or your stealing in another hour of no-study-only-play. And mommy cannot believe most of it. 

It took mommy an ageline of blind childhood aims turning to fantastic adolescent intentions and finally giving in to whatever life would offer to realize what she is meant to do. It took her a lifetime. This means something similar to spoiling all the walls of our house and believing you want to be an artist to soon find out that you have a tickle toe for the drum set, an ear for rhythm. Mommy was meant to do two things in life, C. Love you, and write.

Till such time that you actually sit in my lap, your tiny little butter fingers scrolling over this letter, word by word, making a universe of meaning for your own little world to fit in, know this, that C is not just an alphabet for mommy. C is you. And if you frown so much to understand what this letter is about, your eyebrows would join and become a tree. And then birds would make a nest and live there. So much so that they would snatch each chip and spoonful of Nutella that you would ever want to eat!

Loving you, and writing -- one entails the other.

Momsie. 

Landscape of a Dream

The doors were made of glass. Glass revolving doors, opening unto a land of waves. The sand leading upto it appeared carpet-like, dense in design, coloured in a wild pattern of blue and gold. On the other side, a road weaved in the prosperity of wilderness. As Nikhil walked on it, he stumbled upon a house growing on the crossroads of habitation. A beautiful house. Straight leaves on white branches. And Meira. In all of her broad, badminton shoulders and long, deep neckline, her muted, flowing hair splashing against defined jawlines, as tides do. Meira Bose of holidays. Meira Bose of his past. Meira Bose of dreams.

Nikhil Roy met her in another landscape though. Of peaks and valleys and accompanying rivers. He in his rugged, unkept beard and sturdy Timberland shoes, trekking in his black North Face, freshly back from Standford with a renewed interest in his native highlands. Stacked with courage and passion, he  made that soft gesture of a whiff of a hand when she was smoking in her car. He was inside his. Both their windows down. And desperately trying to convey that the smoke was bad for the mountain air.

Or was it not in the University campus that they had struck a chord? In dreams, things look as if a divine hand poured a glass of lukewarm water on hurriedly done oil pastel shapes. They do not dissolve, they become gentle -- the gentleness of intimacy, of knowing each other since a time when they were separated into two forms of colour. Nikhil walked past sunlit corridors of greetings, looking for Meira. There was an incompleteness in the kiss of the last evening. In that secluded classroom, Nikhil against the wall and Meira stroking his hair suavely floated through waves and into sunset woods and past high snows. Meira was at the canteen, in her corner, knees up to her chin as she listened to a group of juniors belting number after number for her. He smiled.

As they walked, hand in hand, on the cobbled streets crowded with cafes, it most certainly felt like Istanbul. It could well be Prague too. Musicians busily created perfect cirles of grassy clouds and notes that stayed within any sense which cared to linger a little longer than longer. It began raining. Nikhil grasped her hand and ran for shelter under a shop. She ran along. And then walked out. Into the street of rain, drenching alongside trams and tramps. She called out to Nikhil.

They married in the Golden Temple at Amritsar. It was an unusal ceremony of affairs as looked into each other's reflection in the water and became one in soul. That full moon night the gold of the soil caressed the silver of the sky. It was very cold and like runaways from hostels, they cooped up under a roadside bonfire of drunken melodies.

The seaside house turned into a swaying tree that bared its leaves on the carpet to add colours and motif to its existing exquisiteness. Meira saw Nikhil turn back towards the glass door which revolved once more. He walked out of it, straight into her waiting arms. She turned around to kiss him and found his shape on the bed.
A monumental remain of a momentary dream.  

Invasive Ideas

Two eggs, well-brisked into frothy glory. Roughly chopped tender mushrooms. She did not feel like onions today, nor cheese. Perhaps some herbs would do instead. As she brushed a fine layer of olive oil into the pan, Radhika lost herself in deep thoughts, too distant from the omelette she proposed to tuck between the toast. She looked out of the window as she waited for the oil to heat up. Would that be right? Giving up, again. Pushing back a flock of hair she tossed the mushrooms and played with them till a common glaze united them. Satisfied, she then laid out the beaten egg to a circle of exactitude that her life never had. It was always a graph chart. She layered it out evenly then and covered the pan. With thoughts like train tracks on a busy junction, she set up the water to boil and measured out a spoonful of coffee. She smelled it. Davidoff had a distinct bitter smell of subtle maturity. She preferred the Moccona but settled for this today. Almost as if functioning on the remote control push of a distant hand, she removed the lid and began grating cheese on to the egg-spread. When a cube was almost over, she suddenly realized she had initially not wanted it. She lowered the flame and put the lid back and returned to the coffee, which took a single action to be ready. The cheese had melted over the mushrooms like a candle did when she poked a matchstick into it during her study hours in childhood. She quickly tossed the thought and omelette over and sat down to eat.

After two days of no food and complete close down, she suddenly got up from her bed and decided to take charge of her life. In her lounge wear too, Radhika looked attractive. She took a bite, and approving the taste, went on to reason why Rishi did unto her what he did. With the second bite and first sip of the coffee, she indulged in deeper questions of how life always offered her a buffet when all she desired was a pre-ordered a la carte. And finally, characteristic of her, she concluded, in a sudden hurry, that she was privileged to be harbouring such frivolous thoughts when all around her, people could afford neither food, nor the attention to pain.

This had happened earlier with her, this psychological overhauling of incessant thoughts crowding her rationale, and clawing her to cocoon into her deepest insides. She was, if not clinically, certainly allowing her undoing, creatively. In simple things, like figuring a different way of doing her wardrobe, and constantly craving for change, she was compelling herself into a competition with self. Each time she took up an odd job, she had to outdo it from the last of near-perfection. She drowned herself in dust to cleanse her thoughts. They refused to leave. Radhika was suffering, from the syndrome of abstract commons. 

She took a longish bath, and changed into clothes that made her feel good, or she deliberated herself into feeling so. And went out for a walk. Through the weekday streets of her neighbourhood, she observed wells of plots. Ruthless and regardless of their viability to feature as components of her scripts. These were fragments of sights that built up to a fragrance of sound. She took it all in as she walked passed chemists, and stationery stores and bakeries. She took them in to fill up the vacancy her soul had just registered. She let them remain even as buses and cars went by.

Her room quilted over her the familiarity of comfort that a nightmare did not to gentle sleep.

Coffee to her left, cigarette burning on the ashtray, she hit the keys intending her next novel, "Her room quilted over her the familiarity of comfort that a nightmare did not to gentle sleep." 

An Application

Writing is cathartic, and them who allow such a piece to be submitted are worth more than workplaces giving unspeakable, five digit salaries. This had to be put up, for the pleasure of all my readers. Thank you, each one of you. The confidence in this cover letter is possible because you have been reading me consistently, and had a kind word (or paragraph) to spare, always. Here goes:

To,

The Fabulous Team at ScoopWhoop,

This is an attempt at writing a different kind of cover letter, away from the norms of the stringent (and boring) 'I am a post-graduate from here and have experience from there'. And I take such liberty only because it is ScoopWhoop, so that even if I do not bag an offer, I could brag about having written such a letter.

My CV is attached for your detailed detection, though my experience says you will find it misleading as it pronounces my academic achievements and teaching experience over my laidback attitude and performing exceeding well under deadlines. It also says absolutely nothing about how well the badminton court would do to all such skills in me who decide to remain dormant. That cycle ride would be fantastic in creating fabulous listicles too. The CV doesn't say I am bored with the nobility attached with teaching and disgusted with the clerical extras of invigilation and admission woes.

What I am, however, is, a weaver of words at my blogsite, almost daily, and a savourer of tastes, both solid and liquid. People are my favourite form of pet and time-pass. I am done with teaching and the city, and can relocate for the sake of my calling, which I am convinced is writing. Will appreciate a kind response from your end, believing that the team approves a variety in application.

And oh, I love ScoopWhoop!

Best,

Kuntala.


Readers, pray!

A New Story

As I asked my daughter C as to why she ruined her sparkling new white t-shirt with forty nine perfectly done imperfect blue, green and red stars, she gave me a grave look, complete with the afterthought spelling why-the-fuss, and said, 'I have forty nine nu fends'. Alright, I agreed, so what happened to Mr Fifty? 'Tucks bite it'. Ok. Poor Tucks is always at the long and short end of any blame from her. After this she turned to have an eye-to-eye talk with me and complained that I no longer tell her any new stories. There I had it, a new one was thus due.

Once upon a time there were two, too good friends. Their names were Good Girl and Bad Boy. Good Girl had a natural inclination towards the bad and the Bad Boy was very good. They had a friend by the name of General Ghost. This ghost, you see, had lived for generations in the neighbourhood that they both had come to. 

One day in the evening as they went cycling, Good Girl, quite naturally up to no good, slyly put a pin in Bad Boy's tyre for the fun of seeing it burst. As they were going uphill, the tyre gave away and our poor little Bad Boy fell off. He was about to roll down the entire length of the slope and hurt his back were it not for General Ghost, who appeared in the nick of time, out of nowhere, in a whoosh movement, and scooped him up in his arms to save him from the bad fall.

He then took the two of them, by their ears, to Little Person. Little Person lived by the woods, away from Others and was a great one. She was the wisest, for she thought not much. Instead she spoke fearlessly and did what felt right. Others could not accept her courage and hence isolated her, all the while secretly wishing to be so, and thus paying her a visit when out of their own wisdom. 

Little Person looks a lot like you. Why, she even has eyes as deep as the forest she lives in. Now, Little Person listened to the entire Ghost story and got very angry with him. Who on earth decided that Good Girl could not be a tad inch naughty? Or that Bad Boy could not cry because he hurt himself? This was outrageously inhuman, she screamed, and only appropriate of Ghosts. General then largely disagreed and went to assure Little Person of his doing things the human-way only.

'In that case', grumbled Little Person, 'they ought to learn a lesson or two and let the Girls and Boys be. Let us go and scare them out of their wits whenever they perform such acts of miscalculations and misappropriations'. Good Girl and Bad Boy could not believe the conversation they just overheard and convinced of the Little Person's great wisdom, went their way. General Ghost got to do what he liked best, have the last laugh.

It might take her a little while to see the newness of the story, but I am quite sure for someone who makes friends with scribbled stars, it would neither be too difficult, nor, too late. And I hope she takes to the sentence "Little Person looks a lot like you" the most.  She needs to have the confidence mommy never had. And then she will embrace the new stories and the old hugs.

A Happy Ending

Wondrous are the ways of the world concluded Mrinalini as she walked out, willingly, and hoping, that it was for the last time, of the building which housed the worst emotions that she ever came across. It was an asylum of civil insanity that propagated privilege. It was an institution which catered to powering wings, building ambitious, housewife material girls out of degrees. Manicured wax wings. Carefully pruned by the prettiest witch possible. Inhuman tales of beautiful beasty nature were concocted here.

Mrinalini Pathak was of the other kind -- quite used to flying free and enjoying the free flight of others too. And once at home with the insanity she made it her own with designated carefulness combined with unassigned carefree flapping. The witch caught notice of her friendly flight one day and failed to approve, quite foolishly, of the colour splashes on the piece of sky floating overhead. She decided to take immediate actions. One could here ask what stopped Mrinalini from stepping outside immediately. Fuel, ladies and gentleman. Fuel that propels flight.

The pretty witch was a pretty proportionate mix of severe stupidity and ingenious intelligence. One could not fathom what went on within that mind of hers. One should not too, it is a delirious waste of time. She fed on others' otherness often. Decked in the best of wears, all she could manage to whip was an overwhelming amount of whispered disgust. Were they to become audible, they would explode her ego into flickering bits of waste not even worth recycling. She devised and assumed and acted accordingly, unfitting to her position. A witch after all can be rather bewitching, not this. She attacked Mrinalini this time, for quite some time now.

Four instances of foolishness later, Mrinalini's brave shield of detachment gave away and she began facing the brunt of useless power. She was angry, very. She would not have, were she attacked directly. However, the witch in her attempt at clipping wings, clipped few other wings as well. Those of some rare human beings who had found out how to survive the institution. She had had enough, thought she and decided to act. 

As she walked out of the asylum, insanely relieved at having outlived an era, she felt raindrops of molten wax fill up the lane's end. Her armory of fuel consisted of words though. Through propaganda and posters, Mrinalini defamed and vilified the nature of the witch, and left her with her team of trapped souls. She had set the place on fire with the same fuel that had so long held her back. And from there, flew looking for the flower which could stem her flight. About the witch we do not care to divulge or discuss, pettiness deserves no more attention. About Mrinalini's steadfastness, nothing much is known except that it can be quite heady sometimes.Wondrous are the ways of the world.

Off the Spread

"I am going to cook the biryani today, the real royal way" said Madhav, as he adjusted the print out of the recipe of Awadh-style Biryani and placed it exactly in sight and away from water, oil or fire. He had invited thirty six of his relatives -- young, old and very old -- to dinner tonight. Devoid of a say, and skills, to cook up such elaborate royalty, Aditi was assigned the work of the menial labour serving the artist. She would arrange the spices, wash and dry the rice grains and cut her way through the potatoes and onions.

The potatoes were integral to a biryani. She diced a kilo, and it felt like she was tossing the dice of a board game which had complete control over her life now. The onions were essential. She chopped and sliced two kilos. And cried over the control she no longer had over herself. Good, thought Aditi. Nobody would notice, no questions to answer.

"Remember to slice only half a kg" warned Madhav's booming voice from inside the kitchen, blended with the blender's whip of the curd and the spices. 

Aditi sniffed and did not reply. She did not care. Neither for cooking, nor for hospitality. Towards people who would only end up as the panel of critics scrutinizing her abilities and stripping them off with their hostility. She looked at the knife. She loved chopping.

When she was done crying, and not tearing up because of the onions, she smiled. How would it be to serve Madhav biryani? He was after all a goat, unimpressive and understated. All he did was bleat for attention and gleam in the awareness of his value. He was unhealthy, as a man, as meat. And Aditi laughed some more. Madhav biryani would also have the right amount of fat. 

She had a bath, decked up with her prettiest smile and wore the ornaments of a bride of the house. She was full-marks well behaved with the guests. However, the panel of critics could not but award her with the best hospitality tag, what with her insisting they have more helpings of her husband's delectable mutton biryani. She smiled effervescently as she did so.

Gone!

"You have three wishes to ask for in three seconds" said the genie.

With faith greater than thirty years of living, Kriya jumped out with the words, "One, I want to be a loved and successful author. Two, my daughter. And three, love." She checked her watch in a manner of fear only plausible in school children, as if they were caught eating before lunch time during class hours. The weaves of the belt were in an Argentine fashion, and of a brown that matched the brown of her eyes. Close to a blank brown which suddenly decides to dream.

When she looked up, the genie was gone. Kriya Shah was left with her wishes. Unfulfilled.

She stared back at her watch. She was in Tunisia, North Africa, a little tense of wild animals and wild colours. No, she was admiring Klee's Southern Gardens (or was it Tunisian?) at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, not a care about what to have at dinner this evening. Why, no, this evening she was in a pub in Ireland, eyeing potential dates and returning home with one. But her home was in Belgium, where her bags were packed, ready to fly with her to Cambodia the next morning. Sharp at six. Six. She returned to her watch. The mother-of-pearl dial was set off elegantly against the brown belt. The time was telling. There was no genie, no travels, no wishes.

But she was not one who waited for wishes to be granted by genies, or time. In no time, she changed into her work clothes, forgot those second hand seconds and went out to tend to her nine to five job, which neither began at nine, nor ended at five.

Kriya Shah found herself back into the unfinished canvas at her studio of debts.

Tea, Biscuits & Company

Laxman Sharma never made it to the top three while at his school due to lack of intellect, nor did he find himself in a college because of lack of funds. However when on the train to Kolkata from Arwal, he would never believe if someone ever told him that he would end up on 12, Upper Crest Street as a popular tea-shack stall owner, blending tea leaves into milk all day through and serving them to anyone who would care (with or without sugar) in paper or clay cups or tea glass. He would also add ginger during the rains. 

The newspaper he had in his shack for packing biscuits often gave him company on extreme sunny lonely afternoons. He could not read it fluently but bought them daily without fail. The city taught him certain unspoken traits to be with. Even as the price of potatoes were sky high, and that of onions were exploding, he would manage to pay for the Dainik Jagaran. Just going through the black and white images as he made the dawn batch of tea gave him a satisfaction of having done the immense.

His clientele included the students of the college at the end of the lane, the suburbian hardworkers at the city's sales offices, drivers discussing their car owners and hardly the cars, students who spoke in a language he did not understand, middle aged men who complained about their wives and teachers who complained about their lives.

Once he got engaged a little too much in the story of two teachers. One of them came by at a certain time right after lunch to eye another officer from the building who would smoke a cigarette and listen to his colleague but eye back the teacher. He saw many a fling develop over two rupees worth of steam. But this one was special. For the last two weeks all he overheard was how the teacher was facing a bad time at her home dealing with her in-laws and not having a husband who supported her, took to a friend and met him after college. Biscuits would be entertained over how the previous day's rendezvous went. And even as she discussed this, she would be smiling ever so slightly at the uniformed officer. "Sharma ji, another biscuit", and flash went the smile.

He would be too engrossed in catering to customized orders to retain the lives of others, but she was a teacher and that made it so gross, and so exciting at the same time. Even as he stood a testimony to distorted truths he realized the characters never looked back at their creators. For what were the chances that one day he would stand beside her and have a cup of tea and she would recognize the difference in taste, or him? 

He always wanted to write a story and have his name on Dainik Jagaran someday. In his mind he had decided that if such a day were to come, he would serve free tea the whole day through. But it didn't. Some days later he went back home and told his son that the teacher and the officer came to tea together. Of course they had not.

Vasundhara's Letter

As Vasundhara finished the last night with an ample amount of wakefulness to give her company, she forgot to pull the curtains. This morning when the harsh light fell on her face to stop her from sleeping, it felt like a yellow alarm urging her to jump off a cliff. The bottle was on the floor, horizontal. Adamantly, she turned the other side and brought up the letter, vertical. Of all things that she could have done to end her misery, she chose to write. She smiled at this powerless assault she decided to undergo. It seemed so flat, as if the notes were never meant to wear music. Slowly, she woke up to these words:

Beloved Abhinay,

As I call out your name, it makes more sense than ever. Abhinay. I am drinking from the bottle that we last drank out together from. Remember that night? I do. It was a weekday, you were back from work, presenting yourself as a surprise on my door, the kindest you are on bored evenings. I was flattered to be visited. You were the occasion I decked up to, cooked for, made incessant showering love with. We spooned up to each other on the window sill and spoke of nothing, soaking up the night. We heard each others' silence. Or so I thought.

On other days you were never your kindest self, were you? No, as I have never, I will not complain about calls you do not accept, messages you do not reply, plans you do not execute and dreams you do not even see. How do I even blame promises that you never make? It is a pity you made me into the me I have become. Yes, without you I could never confront the confidence I never had, or, would I? But with you what did I allow myself to become? An audience to your arrogance, appreciating every act, I am glad to be your change. Abhinay, like a flautist you touched my unexplored depths and turned them into magnificent melodies. 

And, what does one say of your dark brown eyes? The chocolate warmth in them stirs up my being even now. Their movement consents my entity. And how many lies have I seen swim in them? How many of my tears have they never opened up to? Many of my same days have wedded different nights with you. I have kept many fallen leaves from our walks, some drunken laughs too. Take them away. Please. I do not want to be owned any more, and do not know what to do with such trunks of my wettest memories. Some with rain, some with sea, some others with moonshine. Take them away, Abhinay. Take them away. 

In the tryst of love I have charted my life in, I wish to stop suffering, or longing for an unknown murkiness of distant tomorrow. All my memories that could well be called ours belong to a forest of graveyards. It would rain and they would yield chapters. For no one to read, for no one to know. They would wither away. In a forgetfulness that would not call for blood or bottles. Take them away.

And then one day, should anything ever remind you of me, think of the love that could have been. It now breathes in a coffin. There is a music to it. I am sure you have the ear for it. I have the heart.

Wishing you a life,

Vasundhara. 

She could not believe what she held. She read it through breakfast. She read it till lunchtime. It had a mind of its own which kept asking her, 'When would you send me over?' Vasundhara remained afflicted with her answerlessness. She went back to reschedule her trip to Wimbledon and repack her suitcases. She could not dare to sit with her laptop or take up her pen. They would sing songs that did not belong to her. And fought for an answer. 

That Thing You Do

It was an otherwise ordinary evening with a foreboding sense of a storm. Vasundhara had settled in her kitchen after completion of the day's editing. It was time to un-edit. She was working her way with a stew and a cake and zoning in and out of the movie on TV. The drink in hand was a coffee liqueur presented by one of her cousins on her birthday. Birthdays. They were such a disaster. What was it after all? A reminder of memories one may have once held. She changed the channel to a Wimbledon movie. Ten days to strawberries and cream. Eight days to London. She had waited for this moment since the time she rooted for the gentleman on grass, Roger Federer. She made sure she had tickets to one of his matches in rounds two and three.

Round of Sixteen and Semi-Final was a promise from the Prince of Silence. He had surprised her exactly a month back with his call to confirm her availability for the Wimbledon. He never gave her an option. She fell for that tight space of no choice which spoilt her. Over the month she went shopping in solitude. And extravagantly gifted him with the Final. She would, as planned.

He called this morning to back out of the entire trip. He had a conference in Cairo to attend and invited her over. She hung up. Like all other times of wilderness, she would have to do this by herself too. Cheer for perfection. Indulge in the goodness of a summer in England. And hate herself for missing him in spite of it all.

The cake was slightly overdone and the stew was good. She decided against a night walk and took to her bedroom with the bottle instead. She couldn't fathom the reason why it pained her so much. This was his habit, yet each time she would let him hurt her. The AC made a melodious hum sound, while the nerves were yelling. She dialled his number. As usual there was no response. She was filled up with an anger she did not know existed in her. She stared out of the window. The storm was over.

With an unfamiliar will, she wished to hang from the fan, and swallow some pills and slit her wrist. She wished to murder him with ice, she almost called his wife. The storm was over.

She wrote him a letter instead.

Letter to Love III

Hello Love,

It is raining outside -- although infrequently, but beautifully. Enchantingly. It is raining within -- like a whiplash, an aching drumbeat melody. Insistently. You have reappeared like an ancient promise, demanding to be fulfilled. Resolutely. Pockets of balmy sunshine such are daughters and desires are all wet as they are wished in ink, dissolving in the clarity of your conspicuous fragrance. The ink is made of you, soft yet striking.

In that very ink I write to you. A letter to love they call it. Interestingly, not a love-letter. You do not reply, yet I write on. Of beginnings and in-between-ness-es and endings, all of which remain, and reveal a new me endlessly. Love, I am tired, of you. Much that I want to blossom in your affectionate embrace, I am torn. Your scathing attack has scattered me. The ink that runs in my veins pricks the soul, writing out horror stories. So I had to write one of love to you. To embalm a cure of faith on us.

A story of if-onlys. Clothed in your essence, moments would arrest themselves into an immortal solidarity with time. Freeze in the momentum of warmth. If-onlys are such spirited winged wishes. They pull you out of the cruel chaos of bitter nows and transport you into a land of beloved tomorrows. Fly with them and find your way to my heart. Harsh with facts, it loves helpings of fantasy. It could learn to love back with your lenient indulgence. 

Come, age with me.

Should you choose to, I could too. 

K. 

A Slice of Memory

What does one do when fearful forgetfulness strikes?

Prashant was covered up to his neck in a stark, starchy whiteness and medicated, sanitized air. The table next to him confirmed a severe case of stomach ulcer from which he was gradually recuperating. The planning for surgery was thoughtfully matched with the time post divorce. He analysed the situation and believed that his physical trauma would run over the psychological one, and that by the time he would get back to his work, ample rest would get him back in proper shape. The memory of one bad marriage could not stain his life. He got himself admitted into one of the premium suites of The Wellness Nursing Home. The way to success was a difficult one for him. For the sake of his long-time love, he had given up on his family and come to one Chennai and settled in an absolution of anonymity.

Since school, Maaya hovered all over him, like an incessant rush of divinity, something that could not be rationalised with. She was a performer, she acted, she danced and she won. Hearts. Theirs was an unlikely coupledom of opposites, that would not have attracted. He was the topper with no interest whatsoever in any kind of extracurricular. While in college the only place common to the two of them was the library, where they would indulge in the rows of names and dust. Next to each other, the Absurd Drama and the Accounts section was secluded from the rest of the library, the new part.

Often they passed a I-Saw-You-at-School smile at each other. Uncannily for Prashant, he began attending fests in which Maaya would lead the performances, choreograph dreams and colour fantasies. Slowly, he was captivated by her aura, and would exchange a congratulatory note or two, again, in the library. This time, well timed. He realized such chemistry could not be one-sided and the next that they were in the library, the buttons of his formal shirt were caught in the round, untamed glasses of Maaya's dupatta. They found each other through their limbs, and stroked emotions. There was an undiscovered rage of fire that they evoked. It felt as if the equations of a relationship just got inverted.

On Sunday mornings of intense lovemaking, they traced their love back to lust. They came to know each other behind the body over a lullaby like motion of one concentrated intention. With diverse interests and backgrounds that both gave up, childbirth was a deviation for them. They were a couple that emanated a halo of perfection that went to violent proportions when not in each others' arms or blindly kissing their endless passion, kindly, softly, lovingly. The parties they hosted spoke of the legend of their love and while they never had a legit complaint to pose against the other, the missing of a reason grew deeper, wider. And found more validation with them hopelessly, wordlessly sticking to each other. Till a time when Maaya was confirmed pregnant.

The restraining beginning of nine months started to articulate the vacuum of their being. The bodies they loved were craving each other in a cannibalistic pleasure which understood no reason. The very sight of each other in the morning embittered their souls, they were tragically different. And then the grandest of difference fell upon them when he decided against the abortion that she wanted. Swiftly, like a Nor'wester, she asked him to move away. They understood the pointlessness of a sane dialogue. The notice was served for a mutual dissolution of the costume of marriage they had both draped. Calculatively, he planned to get done with pending surgeries of his own, and move on to the next company of promotion in a month's time. Maaya settled in Thrissur. He would move to Bangalore. After the surgery. It would probably rest their desires.

As the brittle line between consciousness and being conscious tripped over each other pungent with the smell of medicines, and broke into many million fragments of plucked petals and empty tubes of water-colours, his bag floating in her fragrance and her dreams while he drove, he awakened. To disasters they had survived in the garb of everyday togetherness. To memories that stayed tucked in burnt baking and insane investments. To a passion which could only have been fuelled by love, of inappropriate scales of ordinariness, neither was used to.

Theirs was never a tale to be told. It touched. Like such slices of memory. 

A Bouquet of Memories

The House:
It was the same house which housed her growing years. The whiteness of it was now a two-shaded white and beige, like a dollop of creamy vanilla unwinding into a brown bar of chocolate. The paintings had been reshuffled for the walls to appear newly different, but they still loomed large, the years in them. The change in ownership tried to bring about revision, but the First Things one does, stubbornly remain The Special First, irrespective of any customized change.

This was the house she learnt how to use a mobile phone, and got the people who introduced her to the joy of sharing, eating, travelling. The house which unfolded unto her the love of rain. She found out on one of her visits to the terrace that getting drenched was a limited endless resource. The dark tunnel of bright hope. Each of the tears she held back, each insult she gulped, each remark she dealt with, careful not to allow anyone to see beyond the curtains she tightly pulled, she believed one day she would let go. In that house, many years ago, one day when it rained she had gone up to the terrace and soaked up the rain. And her tears became one with that of the skies.

Yesterday she was at the same house, somewhere between the real happiness of unreal magic, when the room darkened with the growling clouds. She pulled up her hair into a clutch and her youngest cousin into a firm grasp and took her to the terrace. She had disagreed for a couple of times till she gave in when she realized the firmness of the grip.

The Terrace:
The door opened to a cloud canvas of pouring grey, and swishing green leaves and fallen flowers. They stood bare under the sky unable to look up. Each drop felt like an intense arrow, making her alive, more than ever. The clothes clung to them limply, like love. The water began clogging on the terrace. Without the specks on, the sky looked even clearer. They sat down, unable to hold ground any longer, and then poured out the words, the tears, incessantly. Both of them.

Of juvenile heartaches, and steadfast determinations. Of growing up and not. And dysfunctional relationships, and memories. Some which remained, more which rusted. And lists that one would never speak out even to self. Verbal confrontations. Soulful tales.

The Life:
Life was a Series of First Things. They Never Ended. 

Two Lives

Me: Hi!

I: Not again! Hi, yes.

Me: Dying, man.

I: I don't see so. How don't you?

Me: We are speaking, alive.

I: So there's a word doing the round that you have changed, for the worse.

Me: Yuh, I gathered. When I was not you, they had a problem too. Now that I am me, there is another.

I: So, what you gonna do?

Me: I dunno. All I know is it hurts.

I: What do you mean by "I gathered, I dunno". That's me.

Me: Exactly. That's me.

Round and round the merry circle of such sketchy shapes lives K. She is one multiple woman. She is all that she is not. K does not like to disclose, she likes to tell. She writes, and lives the lives of many. Those she ran away from, those she hides. Some she cannot face, others she cannot forget. She puts on a colour each season. This time it was joy. It rained today. 

 

And washed her off.

Letter to Chhuti XII

The Dozenth Letter to You.

Chhuti,

Ten months and twelve letters later, people will still relentlessly live in that live-in-ness of whether you are, or not, like they did nine months and eleven letters ago. People will ask me who you are and disbelieve me when I say you aren't. They will then ask me how did you shape up and take form. How? Like most matters that matter, do. Chhuti, do not be hurt when people misunderstand the value you endorse, or when they do not understand the importance I associate with and to you.

This is my dozenth letter of which you have read none. And yet you have been around like that all important potion which rejuvenates the corners of a soul. I have just been promised that you would be with me for thirty days once the Goddess celebrations are on. In fact it feels like Goddess' blessing. We have had one, right? We have then traveled the mountains and seasoned with Christmas, moved to this year and spelled over to the summer of your gracious, bountiful absence. And now we will have this. Thirty days of just you, just me, and our world of us-ness seeping into our entire beings. 

Chhuti, to be able do what one likes, that is what you allow. You are the most affectionate thing my life ever has known, felt, loved, lived. Cannot wait for your embrace.

You are the break which holds me together.

Love,

K.

Letter to Daughter VI

Chinkiepie dearest,

Monsoon is here. And the first letter of monsoon goes your way just the dreamy way I found you in my thoughts today, as I slept. For a long time you have been wanting to visit Mommy's Big School. Such was my surprise to see you there, waiting for the lift in a strange, neither deep nor light blue frock in your two plaits and almost heavenly pure face, clinging to your doll as if the tighter you clutched her, the faster the lift would arrive. I don't have a fair idea who brought you there and like in movies we will not try and localize the logic which isn't. Your face looked beatific in that wonder you wore when you saw the samples stuck in the wall of infant and children wear and I felt like running to you then and there and pull you up into my arms.

Dreams, however, are stealthy things. The more urgency with which I run towards them, the quicker it dissolves, as if sucked up in a quicksand of feelings. Where do you live then? Where do you run to? This heart loved you enough to accept you even when you are not, yet you run away in a way which is more real than reality.

The rain washes away the pain, the wise ones say. Perhaps. Mommy disagrees. Chinky, when you grow up and read this letter please ask yourself what makes you so excited about the electronic fireworks in the sky. Why do you run around to find a paper to make a boat? Why do you tease Tucker and scare the hell out of him threatening to take him out for a walk? Why do you catch me in my most personal moment of being lost as it rains, bringing me back to the unbelievable happiness of a reality called you? Bringing me back to the comfort called you, more unreasonable than most reasonable heartaches, ever?

You make me so happy that it is sad, the beguilement of it all. This is what the rain does. Washes away the thickset of illusions. Did it this time though?

I am still writing to you, and sealing this with the Mommy-kissie you love.

Run to your mom-soon! Each monsoon.

Momsie.

Midsummer Madness

She woke up to an everyday of morning hours of minute by minute scheduling, on to a harrowing hell of a workplace. The only possible redeeming factor was her new clothes. Yes, she was perhaps, a very superficial person. Detached by decision, intuitive by hormones, loved beyond reasons and disliked unreasonably, she put on the music in the car. It was very difficult to make her irritated, but the sun succeeded. First thing in the morning, it had to be loud. With the staunch attitude of an aristocrat autocrat it even overshadowed the predicted monsoon.

 

Through the day of endless hours stretching into a meaninglessness, her madness found its true colour. She was turning grey, one with her new apparel. The more restless she went within, the more stoic she appeared to others. She was continually thinking of life and the shades it shows, constantly. She was cooking up a recipe for escape and then cooled down like the fizz of an aerated drink that dies down the moment it is uncorked. She was everywhere between the stitches of regulations. She was with the patch of sky as seen from the semi-open blinds, she was with the various dashes and commas of her life all the while seeking a full-stop. She was in her summertime sadness.

 

The people around her bothered her the least, the pages more. They called for her attention, they called for a new chapter. She was distracted with the sights and sound in the sky, and the smell which strangely could not permeate through the locked doors and windows. Perhaps it was the sense of what-would-be, that broke through to the soul. She went up to the blinds and pulled them open completely. Her boss jokingly asked her to take an outside breath before the rest of the work would be met with. She walked out. 

 

The sky looked different, and familiar. It had mellowed down with a madness that she was only too well aware of, it wore her all over. Torn between a desire to rundown the stairs and get drenched, and to make stories of the sky, she turned to go back to where she did not belong.

 

She was a song, of madness, sung sometimes lovingly sometimes longingly. She was everything that others owned. She was the dash that could be filled by anything you wished to.  

An Old Story

Daughters are strange bundles of comfort. Even as the sun was over the top, and the road thickened with the invisible humid weight of sweat and the very visible discontent amongst those crossing it, I sat inside my car, thinking of a time of a not very long ago summer. Packets of  new buys yearned to get out of their costume and adorn their buyers. Yet such were days of sweltering heat when dolloping you up in my arms, I would come shopping. You gradually fell asleep peacefully, even amidst traffic and bargains, and woke up only when we were back in the car. You always loved a good bit of pampering, didn't you, relaxing on me as if I were the world's best pillow? Slowly as you grew up to be more demanding, the ride back home punctuated by our stops for dinner would be full of you pestering me for a story. I return to a certain one today for your pleasure only!

In a glass house called the Ice-cream Box, lived many friends, hardly cold with each other. They had funny names -- Butterscotch, Blackcurrant, Vanilla, Mango, Orange, Chocolate and others. They mainly belonged to two groups: What-Not and Many-More. Certain members of What-Not group were quite uppity, bitey and pricey, while most of Many-More were meek and many. Needless to say, they did not quite match to each others' taste. Bound by the coldness of their being they lived in a proximity of delightful tension between the sensational and the essential.

One day, Spoon and Stick came to visit them. They were surprised to see some of the Cherries in a fix as to whom they should deck up more, Mango or Chocolate? Cones also did not understand whose side to take when given a choice. So they decided to call it a day and resolve the matter in a friendly way. They stayed back in Ice-cream Box gulping in the colours and the flavours, the taste and the sight, trying to understand the joy of having and the joy of giving.

Spoon and Stick, with the help of Cone, started to teach us the value of sharing. One day Stick would butt in an Orange, while the other day it would encourage Chocolate to leave him and join Spoon. Cone too was quite handy in this respect adding to the delight of a scoop of sharing. Often we heard him say, "If you love a Kiss, you might get a Hug back!"

An amazing warmth prevailed in the Gangs of Ice thereafter. Candy and Cream, Fruits and Biscuits all became a rainbow of friends looking for the pot of gold together. And this togetherness, we called 'sharing', generally felt when the cold between things or people gives in to melting.

Want one? Which?

It is the peak of summer, and starry little ice-cubes in the freezer, or scoops of creamy colours bring in an outstanding sense of inner chill. New friends have traits of the old. They aren't cold, the exotic flavours of Nolen Gur and Sitaphal in a tiff with the resounding charm of the Tender Cocunut, while they make more sense when had with a loved one! You no longer run into my arms when you get off the school bus, but when you hear the scream of the ice-candy man, the same old faith of my little one runs back to me, your eyes wishing for me to let you have one. Want one?

You loved a Kiss enough to get back the Hug.

Forty Ounce of Kisses

It was the Hershey's party bag of classic Kisses. At her new job, she placed it orderly inside the old drawer. At her home, just where she kept the keys she had a round glass jar full of Kisses and the slogan running right across it, "Everyday deserves a kiss". Ice-cream was her poison since childhood. And subservience. Having studied medicine for a good five years, Jahnabi finally gave it up to build the ice-cream factory that she had wanted, since her dreams. To give up subservience, since life.

In a distant and forgetful tea garden of Assam, her parents were still trying to figure out how a meritorious student as her did not persevere the coveted course and set up a flashy chamber to make sacks of money. With the money she inherited from her grandparents when she came of age, Jahnabi, uprooted from her self with one swift flash, the decorum to seek permission and informed one morning over what to have at lunch, about her move to Pune. She could never understand why apparently artistic neighbours would touch her amply, that would remain indelible. Uncomfortable, even the thought.

All these years she projected a mild persona of the rich man's dainty daughter, incapable of ambitions, whilst planning and buying the requisites to a future made brick by brick. It was when she had thought of the word brick that she decided on the ice-cream part. She called it Loaded. 

For all that Jahnavi shed, and wore anew, she could not become the person she was not. She was hurt when cheated, angry when ran in a loss. She was a model of spontaneity. Four years and she could no longer focus on Varun. This place had eventually given her everything but love. Each time she missed being kissed, she popped in a Kisses. A forty ounce packet got over in less than a month. 

To the extent that she called hers a dead marriage in her head, regularly visited a morgue in the memory and staged gloriously the dance of the wild in her increasing body size by the weight machine. Forty ounce of kisses killed her daily. She died of none.

Getting There

As Chitra washed the turmeric stained plate over the sink, the dawn light broke into one of insignificant mornings of milk packets and newspaper visits. She had carefully separated the fish-bones from the vegetable leftovers. Her day at college would begin in some hours as the meticulous packing of the tiffin box confirmed. There was no one else in this house of hers. She sent off her fatherless daughter, aged twelve, to one of the most sought after boarding schools of the country, needing to keep her away from the hassles of dependent nurturing. She could do it because Kaveri was not her own daughter, unused to such parenting, concluded the relatives.

The collage on the kitchen wall had a picture of a year old Kaveri in her white sleeveless cotton frock with stitched red hens and a green stitched duck, and a bald five year Kaveri going off to her first school day. Aditya had gone to drop her. It had a seven year old Kaveri with her grandparents in the misty foothills of Mahabalipuram. Rest of it was covered in oil stains and stains of age. She turned her back to fill up her bottle. The banana looked a little stale for breakfast.

As Chitra went in for a bath she consulted her watch, she was in time. Today was the last working day before college broke for vacation. There was no sign of the monsoons to wash away all the loneliness that rain promised each summer. Tomorrow she would be flying to Coimbatore to collect Kaveri on their way to Lakswadeep. Shekhar and Kaveri had taken to each other. Shekhar would join them from Bangalore. The tickets were done, suitcase packed.

Just like three years back, when Aditya was supposed to meet them at Pondicherry for their holiday. Chitra and Kaveri were at the Chennai airport waiting for him when the TV channels broke in the news of the crash. Her world shattered in that sound of silence. Over the next ten days Chitra grew an anger against Aditya for such an untimely, undeclared betrayal. She had Kaveri to take care of before she could think of herself.

The winding roads towards the hostel was the only time when Chitra allowed her emotions to take over. She had a good cry, fixed her eye make-up and lolled up the scene amongst her daughter’s friends. In the evening Shekhar surprised them with his visit. Life seemed like a winning game of Scrabble. The more the attempts, the more the meaning. But in the end, it was a victory of persistence. Yet, Aditya loomed in the hollowed deeps of the music that played in the car, and the garlic of the chicken.

The turmeric refused to leave, just as Chitra refused to get there, trapped in a time three years ago. 

Work in Progress

Choice. Such a harmless little word slipped in casually, lightly, but hardly meaning so, thought Meira through the listless high summer day. It built a disquieting burden. It killed her, each little time. It felt as though one option would grow claws and claim her nerve if she did not take its side. Like the other would drown in an agony of loneliness without her consent, her concern. Choice, where dangers lurked. It was evening, and the day had unfolded to be as heavy as boredom. The spaces of extensive everyday chores were attended to in march-past like diligence. Meira sat with her laptop, and tea and an uncharacteristic Tere Khat playing on her playlist, she had been struggling with the difficulty of words since the last three days. There were not in exact harmony with her fancy, her frenzy. They were trapezing above her head like wildflowers do, around cartoon characters' when they are hurt. They hurt her too.

Amidst such recognition assigned to the grandness of blankness she received a phone call. Always the most surprising of them all, Roop. He signified that point of no return which existed forever, he was the dash in her life which she never had the courage to fill up. Punctuations were the most pronounced when they became the transferred epithet to people.

He called to complain of why she was so distant, so cold. He called to converse about daily incidents with a stance of no gaps ever having existed till the earlier moment. He confirmed of a love that was beautiful in its invisibilty, but togetherness that would still be dirty. He was all over with sweetness, and flattered Meira to change the day to a lively collection of memories and moments. He was afternoons and kisses and he was late night promises. She completed the call deliberately after about an hour faking some appointment at a parlour. In many months this was the first time that Roop said, "No, please don't." She swelled with emotions. She swelled with incomprehensible tears. She kept the phone.

Theirs was a strange friendship, a stranger relation. It was pathetic in patches, but mostly poignant. They were both good people who could not help but be loved and identified by each other. They could not forget, yet they could not be. This was a choice she had allowed him to take, for she was bad at choices, Meira. And each time he called, she felt she should not have.

The only takeaway from being with him in this space of unreal being, was that it made her, as he confirmed, cold. She read the mask as strong. As for love, well, Meira never quite got used to it. She was horribly bad at choices. Choices, they choked.

Blacksheep

The Rajputs were one of the most popular families in town and the elder son, Shashank was justifiably sought after. They had ancestral properties and tea gardens to look after, which meant both he and his younger brother Sunny never had the pressure of 'what-to-become-in-life'. Sunny was still in boarding school, while Shashank had returned after a holiday in Vietnam, clubbing the needs of new age pesticides for tealeaves and woodwork. Even though he might appear flamboyant, in his red shirt and jeans out from his blue Skoda, he was the shy man of the family. If there was one thing he really was in love with, it was scuba diving. He loved the sea. At the club, he only had the sober amount of Scotch. He did not enjoy a game of cards, nor hunting for brides. Most people assumed that he owed this reticence to being closeted. He did not. He was just too detached from most things. He knew a wife would be on his way too, soon. Life was reasonably uncomplicated, till one day.

Sunny was back for his vacation and while playing one of the games on his tab one morning at breakfast, Shashank came across previous pages. So his brother wanted to join the Equestrian Federation, and had a girlfriend, and watched Game of Thrones, and wait, what was that? He read a line into the website. It was a blog called Letter to Little Things. How was that possible? And below that one to Microwave Oven. He gave a cursory glance and having liked it, took it out to the lawn to relax and read. By afternoon he was an addict. He refused to return the tab to Sunny, cancelled his morning garden visit, and delayed his lunch.

At lunch, a disheveled Shashank was hankering Sunny to know of the origin of the blog. He found out a bit about the author from social networking sites and went back to the letters. Something came alive in him with her words, as if they fed his soul. He slipped into his shorts and spent the day beginning from the beginning. He felt hypnotized and compelled to move on to the next. Having stopped at sixty of her posts, he took to the mail and sat to compose one to her:

"Miss Sengupta,

I, Shashank Rajput, have never known emotions to have an abundance like they do in your command. I was not aware that the same language could connect two different brothers to a common source. You have been on my mind since Little Things and it feels I know Chhuti, and Chinky and Letters and Stories like I know insecticides and pesticides and fertilizers and types of tea.

Needless to say, I know you may find this extremely impulsive, but I would like to invite you to our Jonaki TE, for a weekend and watch you write. Your tickets will be confirmed as soon as you give me your dates. Ma'am, this is an already ardent fan who would love to know you better and wishes that you agree to his humble proposal.

PS: I assure you of a comfortable stay while at Jonaki.

Sincerely,

Shashank Rajput."

Till the next evening's reading of ninety three posts, Shashank did not receive a reply. The one hundred and forty seventh post too did not beget a reply the next afternoon. His parents were concerned with his sudden coiling in his room. He had not shaved in the last three days and was glued to the tab. Sunny got Shashank's ipad in exchange for silence.

In small towns, the smallest of irregularity calls for a scandal of the greatest proportion. Legend is an unpublished author made the eligible Rajput a blacksheep.

What made him turn his back to his daily duties, however, was a regular correspondence with her, in letters.

In-between

Hamad International Airport, Doha; October, 2010.

"Last call for Nishi Burman. You are requested to report immediately at gate number 23. QR 546 is ready for departure".

For the past eight hours, she was used to the code 'QR 68' from Frankfurt to Doha. Clinically, she had waited for the last call even as she sat right near gate number 23, fully awake, opposite the 24 Seven outlet musically calling out sale promotions. She got up, relaxed her back muscles with a stretch, eased out the crease in her cotton indigo trousers, slipped back into her light blue Crocks, rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt and wore her long hair in a lazy bun which she tied up with a blue and white Mango scarf. As she picked up her pure brown clean-cut Fendi bag, she slid up the RayBan to her head. Each thing she owned, she wore, she bought, she gifted, she did it with utmost care. She walked towards her gate and made it to her seat, carefully picked a day in advance, by the window, with ample leg space. She was prepared to sleep for most of the journey to Kolkata. All that was left to be picked up for the span of the next two months was the alcohol which she would from the CCU Duty Free. A Glenmorangie for self, in solitude, and a Jameson, when with friends.

As she pushed up her seat back to its upright position before takeoff, she was pleasantly surprised by the person who came back from the bathroom to take the seat next to her. The man in an olive green Lacoste t-shirt. She had worn Lanvin today, and closed her eyes to think of the hours in between. The hours in between Frankfurt and Kolkata, at the Doha stopover. The hours in between. The rabbit like cloud came to a level of friendly nearness, and was chasing the map of Canada cloud. She smiled at him and feigned to be asleep.

Five hours back, Nishi was still trying to come to terms with the divorce that she had asked for, and eventually got. The Europe trip could not fade the human amount of sorrow maligned by the inhuman amount of relief. Only when she had to pick a person to love, she tripped flat on her face. She fell for a name like Ramesh Chaudhuri over the Ayushmans and the Aniruddhs and the Pallavs. She was ashamed, hurt, deeply wounded. Such a mistake was unexpected from her. She went in to the smoking zone at Doha and pulled out her Benson and Hedges Lights.

The hours in between were like the cigarette smoke, trapped in its own flight. Here in Doha, she felt more at home smoking than she did in Kolkata. She asked for a light from one of the many smokers. As she scrolled down Facebook, she was struck to find Ramesh put up a post on his collection of knives. His collection. Which she had carefully built. She was angry at herself for being so effected by his public showoff. She stubbed her cigarette and after thirty seconds took out another. She lost all her poise somewhere in between.

An hour later she regained control and went back to being Nishi Burman. And in between all the guards she had to live one life, she died a thousand deaths of the untamed. Unnoticed. In-between.