Lost & Found

Ira Roy left her parental home to live with the man she got involved in an affair with -- Anil Ganeshan. In the pretext of performance, she was allowed a leave from her college and from her family a nod of encouragement. Her mother, Veena, did not have much to say. She tried cajoling, punishing, threating, explaining, loving Ira to an inverse decision, but Ira would not give in. She took special care to see that her parents never got to meet Ganeshan. 

They were travelling to Bangalore, had a fantastic ride and returned home to the JNU campus. A letter addressed to 'Anil Ganeshan and Ira Roy' awaited them. A very curious Anil found the handwriting indistinctly familiar. He cut open the envelop.

Dear Anil, and dearest Ira,

Anil, when we had our affair, I never knew I would write to you beyond those scribbles on your back. And Ira, I could have never believed something like this would unfold in a single lifetime.

Anil, if I know Ira well, she must not have told you, but she is the fruit of OUR labour, of love. Lust. And all that is memories. Stuffed in a trunk, breathing under the sea. I am having to write this letter because I have no other way to inform you. What is right, wrong, correct or ugly is for the two of you to decide. But there is a third person between you both, the prime source of connection, and being that person, I choose to inform you both, together. 

Ira, my love. Don't get me wrong. I love Daddy. And the man you are smitten with and reading this right now with, I think I loved him too. It was so wonderful to see you growing up loving your father the lover's way. I misread it, miscalculated. It is a mismatch, genetically. However, hormones never quite obey anything else, do they? 

So, be. Both of you, as you choose to. Mine was only to let you both know. Of the tie that tied you together before theatrical ones did. 

By the way, Anil, Ira knows this since the end of the workshop, day one. I am fairly sure, Ira, you haven't told Anil though. What interests me now, Anil, is to know what you are going to do? Were you both here, I would have made you a nice drink each to drink it all in.

Anil, a cup of lemon tea for you, sweet, with a pinch of salt.

And for you Ira, fresh lime soda, sweet, with a pinch of salt.

Best wishes, babies.

Veena / Ma. 

Ira was white, Anil was stricken white.

Curtains.

Lost Lots

'Jiya Seth!'

'Yes, Ma'am.' 

Mine now.

'Ira Roy!'

'Present, Ma'am.'

'Ishani Mukerji!' I hope she didn't miss my response.

'Here, Ma'am.' It feels like school again. 

'Kaveri Das!' Oof, forty minutes of Keats now. 

'Yes, Ma'am.' What is there to learn from two figurines stuck in an earthen pot? I wish KS were here, teaching us Modern Drama. Or, DB. Why doesn't this stupid college do things in application. Oh, how I long to play Antigone! Or, Cleopatra! I miss the bloody stage.

'...seminar on poetry...next week...in association with St Xaviers'...followed by a workshop on theatre to be conducted by Professor Anil Ganeshan...only selected students will be allowed...merit...evaluation...'

Ganeshan Sir??? JNU!!! Oh-My-God! I will kill to be a part of that. Why is the woman speaking so much shit? 

'We return to Greciun Urn...'

She doesn't stop! How am I supposed to concentrate? Ganeshan in my city? My campus? Holy-molly! I think I will stage Antigone for the auditions. These dumbfucks will easily recognise Antigone as a super-character. They will think I am well-read. I will borrow the costume from Dhruv's mom and enact her final monologue. 

A bullet of a chalk hit Ira on her shoulder. 'I do not want wandering thoughts in my class! Attention!'

Ira shot a nervous, confused, unsure smile. Damn. Bloody professors. But, what a shot! She tried to concentrate on the dichotomy of melodies heard and unheard. She failed. The class finally ended after what seemed ages and almost immediately Ira, burying her books in her bag rushed out of the classroom, and left for the canteen. She did not like the excessive smoke in the canteen area, sometimes it also disturbed the vision. She was looking for Dhruv. Dhruv Mathur was from the Department of Film Studies, and Ramola Aunty's son, her mother's friend. There he was, in his curl crop and ugly stubble and shabby t-shirt and torn jeans. So predictably central in the gang of girls with his guitar and sugar voice. Ira ran to him, 'We need to talk!'

Dhruv didn't end the song he was playing, left his guitar in the custody of one of his fans, ordered for two teas, collected the paper cups, handed one to Ira and walked out of the canteen together. 'What?'

'Are you aware of the workshop?' Ira looked at his face for a sign of lie. He did not try. 'Yes. The Annual Workshop. Wait, this year. Is it on theatre?'

She smiled. 'Yes.'

'And you are gonna try and attend it?' Ira smiled wider.

'God, Ira. You will so make it to the workshop. Why feign, man? Why does Dilip Uncle not want you to pursue it? Knowing you, you must have already thought of a character.'

'Antigone.'

'Not Cleopatra?'

'That one's for Ganeshan.'

'Who?'

Ira hugged him. 'Yes Dhruv, yes! Ganeshan!' Their cups emptied of tea and filled with a border of tealine instead, they mused over the evenings when Ira had shared with Dhruv how she had a 'thing' for the revered Anil Ganeshan. She was always, quietly associated, after being introduced by her mother, with Ramola's troupe. She wondered how her mother gave up the stage. One look at Veena and anyone would vouch that those eyes were made to be looked at. To redirect. Her father was a conservative businessman who never approved of the women of the house to be applauded by an audience. Private practise, whatever that meant, and private delight, whatever that too meant, was fine by him. So, Veena made sure Ira fulfilled her stage-desires with Ramola, Dhruv and other known faces. During one of her visits to a staging of Lear, Liar!, Ira fell in love with Anil Ganeshan. Veena, Ramola, Dhruv and she had gone for the show. She sat between her mother and Dhruv, and by the end of the play, they knew it too. Ever since, Ira and her silent, one-sided affair with Anil was not a thing to be joked about amidst those who knew.

Dhruv returned home with Ira and sat to work on the piece she would prepare for the audition. By night, it was well written. When Veena entered the room, the children looked like her evenings from yesteryears -- little heads bowed in hardwork over a piece of performance, or listening intently to some newly found musician, childlike enthusiasm brimming the place. She was passionately informed of Ganeshan's workshop in their college and what Ira had thought to stage. Veena smiled. Children. I miss this naivety. 

A week later, when Ira was selected, it came as no surprise. Soon it was time to the seminar-workshop weekend. Ira's skin shone like it underwent an urgent treatment. At breakfast, Dilip noticed her unusual dialogues with Veena. 'I will have cornflakes, Ma, don't worry.' That is remarkable! 'Daddy, can I come along and then get dropped after the car is done with your office?' She wants to travel with me? What does she want?

I want Ganeshan. Ganeshan Sir, take me in your life! I want to travel with you, attend your lectures, rip you apart in love. I want to be your Juliet. I will be your Ophelia. The roads changed from the quality residential to indifferent office buildings and crossed over to the victorian building of their college. She adjusted her looks last minute before getting off the car. The auditorium had a huge and heavy banner spread across, 'THE ANNUAL WORKSHOP.' The stage was set.

Anil Ganeshan came in his trademark FabIndiaesque kurta and linen pyjama. A black tread around his right ankle, a dot of a diamond on his right earlobe, a blue spinel sitting tidy on his right index finger. His presence was pronounced when he spoke. Characters came alive, techniques performed, Ganeshan owned the stage. Yes, you are the man, my man. I will own you. He called for the particiapants one by one. Just as it was Ira's turn and she stood next to The Grand Ganeshan, someone from the admin body interrupted. They were to enact the reprise of the Jimmy Porter angst. She was to be Alison. The break came as a sudden interference to her anticipated climax. They got off the stage.

Ira's dissatisfaction was written all over her face. 'That ain't gonna help your performance tomorrow, lady!' Holy shit! Grand Ganeshan is speaking to me? He walked upto her, smelling of Lactoste mixed with sweat. 'Tea?'

What? 'Sure.' Should I ask him for dinner? 'Here, or somewhere else?'

'The gang is joining. You have some good place in mind? By the way, I loved the way you were taking mental notes. I know which ones you appreciated the most. Thank you, lady.'

Ira was swept over with an angry sexual urge to tear the man into slices. How dare you have the entire group? Who was making mental notes? Who knows all your moves? They had a prolonged coffee at the canteen itself and as they were getting ready to disperse, Ganeshan held Ira by her shoulders and spoke to her. 'Would you like me to drop you home?'

Why? 'Why?'

'It feels like I have known you all my life.' Pause. 'I know you feel the same.'

They sat beside each other in the car. 'I hope you don't mind if we stopped for a bit at my guest house. I would like to change before taking you to your house. By the way, would you like to have a quick dinner?'

Now I am nervous. 'Why not! Steak? Or, biryani?'

'Which do you think?' He was obviously teasing her.

Biryani. 'Steak.'

I knew it! 'Biryani.'

'Right. We will go to Ashiyaan's after your guest house.'

As they got off at the guest house, the air around them was charged with invisible electricity. Tickling nerves till their end. Musical tickles. Chords on fire. As she waited for him to change and come out of the bathroom, she glided her hands over his pillow, on his bed. What would it be like to glide over you, Grand Ganeshan? Nibble your beard?

'Lady! Lets go?' He saw her hands on his pillow. He came near her. 'Ira, right?'

'Um, hm, Ira.' She closed her eyes. They dissolved in a kiss. A mighty kiss, tenderly.

The length of the kiss brought them back to their senses. 'I am sorry.'

Ganeshan pulled her cheek. 'I am not.' And kissed again. 'Let us have that dinner, lady. You set my appetite burning. It will be difficult to quench it with anything lesser than you.'

They had a dinner of roti, chicken rezala, mutton biryani and firni. It was increasingly difficult to keep their hands off each other in the car. Ira's house came into view. They departed longingly, plans of a certain tomorrow intact. She rang the bell, went into her room, changed and thought out the day. Veena came in then. 'Had a nice day, Ira?'

Ira had put a multani mitti pack on her face. She knew her mother would understand if she saw her face. Yet, her eyes gave away. 'Yes, Ma. Ganeshan is wonderful!'

Veena smiled. 'Does he still wear the blue ring?'

'Yes! How do you know? Did he teach you too?'

Veena laughed. 'No Ira.' And sat on her bed. O ou. This doesn't seem right. 'He was Ramola aunty's classmate. I had a crush on him.' And quickly added, 'Like everyone around.'

'Mom...we kissed.'

Veena looked at her, fixed, silent. 'And?'

'And nothing Ma! Cmon!'

'Sure?'

With a made-up restrain, Ira replied. 'Yes, Mom. Good night.'

As she washed off the pack, she wondered why mothers are so curious. The thought flew away with the impending passion towards tomorrow. Ganeshan of her dreams, in her arms, on the stage, on the bed, in her life. Tomorrow would be the make-it day. There was no possibility of a break-it day. She read it in his eyes. They mirrored hers.

Veena returned. 'Ira. I slept with Anil Ganeshan and got pregnant with you. When Daddy found this out he stopped me and later you from taking to the stage. Anil and I had a very short-lived but active relationship. Touch and go.'

Ira did not know how to react. Anil Ganeshan is my father? I kissed him? We fondled? Tomorrow we are gonna make out? She came out with her towel. 'Wow. Thanks Ma. I will tell him that tomorrow. Have a scene first thing in the morning slot. Water?'

Silence.

'So, he is my father? You are sure?'

'Yes Ira. I was pregnant when I married Dilip. I had only been with Anil then. He doesn't know. He never loved me, I guess.'

'Good night, Ma. Go to your room. Let me have the night to myself.'

The next morning on stage, the chemistry resumed between Grand Ganeshan and Ira. She told him nothing. He never loved you, Ma. He loves me. Look into his eyes.

His eyes mirrored hers. 

Tricked!

The watch is in my right hand, look! Have another look, look! The magician closed his fist, pulled it to his mouth, and apparently gulped down the watch. The many little lights on the edge of the stage looked dim in the halo of the man. He opened his fist. It was gone, the watch. The audience burst into an applause. Misri was delighted. The silence that followed, voiced the bated expectation with which the eyes of the audience looked towards the stage. The watch made a re-entry in the next to next act, from the girl who was chopped into halves' pocket. The drive back home from the auditorium felt like a punch into Misri's imagination. Her parents' words from the front seat failed to reach her. She wondered how it would be to possess magic.

'And then, the watch just vanished!' Misri gleamed with pride as she elaborated upon the act in front of her group of friends. None of them had been to the magic show yet. She felt as victorious as the magician himself. She decided to become a magician. Over the years, Misri gradually grew up from her class four moment of unbeliveable joy at perceiving magic to studying law and order. Ambition and career were such separate entities.

Over a romantic walk inside the University Campus, Rohan held her hand and asked her of her dearest memories.

'Magic,' she replied. 'All I ever wanted.'

Rohan burst into an outrageous round of laughter. 'Magic, Misri? Magic Misri. And what would you do with magic, Misri?' As he pulled her close and kissed her and whispered 'Magic Misri' into her ears.

Misri shied away and smiled coyly. She loved how it sounded, Magic-Misri. Sweet. As they walked further, she started thinking what she would do with magic. After a long and deep thought she smiled at her logical reasoning. Why, I would move my wand and redo my room! And other rooms. I would remove photo frames and clean cobwebs and shift cupboards and clean the dust in the corner of the windows and under the bed. She was slightly shocked. All the magic for all such chores? You are MAD, Misri!

You go to such shows sure to be surprised, don't you? Yet, each time, you are.

Magic-Misri enrolled for a magic workshop to be held in Thrissur this winter vacation. She would die regret-free. Work-free. Magically.   

Letter to Chhuti XIV

Hello Sweet Little Holiday!

Sweetheart, I am going to keep it sweet and crisp -- like your visits are. Stealing is a bad habit. Stealing a spoonful of milk-powder, stealing an extra piece of mutton, stealing sleep for twenty more minutes after the alarm goes, each of these, as unassuming and alluring as they may sound, harmless too, are not 'good'. Let us give you an example. These letters from me, would you ever like one to be misplaced? Even though you do not read them by the hour, you do like the idea of having them with you, don't you, all fourteen? So, you see, stealing is not good.

However, what does one do when one gets to get you by stealing? Or, steals you out of a schedule? All ideas of goodness go for a tremendous toss. I mean, its you, Chhuti! A delayed beginning to a working week, a lapse of attention towards dedication, an extra look at the shades of the sky -- you make it all possible. Ethics of professionalism, standards of perseverance and parameters of patience turn to phrases of jumbled meaning when you are with me.

Look at me, Chhuti! I am smiling! I feel free, happy. Right in the middle of the urban industriousness, you are my island of indolence. I owe you my respite, in effect my life.

Thank you, all over again, Chhuti.

K.

A Titanic Tale

Wahida's fondest memories from childhood included going to the movie theatre with her Abbu and Ammi, in their new, black Cielo. They had shifted to proper Calcutta from Murshidabad, for her father's expansion of business. It created a stir in the family. She remembers the anger Daijaan showered on Ammi, cursing her as the house-burner. Wahida did not quite understand how Ammi was responsible when there was no fire. One of those afternoons she even asked her, 'Daijaan, how did Ammi burn the house?' The innocence of her question did not shake the rustic belief of the grandmother though. 

Abbu bought an old house in New Alipore and renovated it even as we lived in it. As an effect, I grew up amidst plumbers and carpenters and masons and painters. Abbu's shop in AJC Bose Road quickly picked up the loyalties of clients in matters concerning flooring and artificial gardening. How Abbu had to fight with Daadajaan for him to begin this idea. Ammi too seemed way prettier in clothes outside of the black hijab. She wore the neatest salwar-kameezes I have ever seen on any of my friends' mothers. In some years she devoted herself to that one room in out house which she turned into Wahy, the best boutique around. How proud Abbu was! And how disappointed and disapproving my grandparents.

When our white Maruti-800 became Ammi's car and Abbu bought himself the bigger Cielo, we decided to celebrate. I was all of nine or ten. Ammi proposed we go for Titanic in New Empire, and then a dinner at The Oberoi Grand. The property issues were easing out and I can safely say money was never too much a thought. Hence, the evening was on. I was so excited through the day that I could not focus on my classes. Class Four was a tough nut to crack. I longed to be home, to be dressed in my favourite princess pink frock to go out with Ammi-Abbu, to watch an English movie and have dinner in a five-star. I wondered during my Mental Arithmetic class how were hotels classified into stars. And if Oberoi was so fantastic, why just the five stars? Most of my sums were wrong that day. I ran off the school bus into home.

What an evening it was! Abbu had come back early to collect us. I felt so proud as Abbu looked handsome in his light brown linen jacket over his white shirt and dark brown trousers. And what does one say of Ammi? She was mesmerizing in her blue saree and sleek gold chain from which a diamond pendant looked as if the first of dew on a morning green leaf. She even wore the Omega that came to her from Naani. 'This watch is for special occasions, beta,' she used to tell me. We looked the happiest family to anyone who saw us get off the black Cielo. This is the happiest day of my life!

Over a memorable but not-so-relishing dinner at The Grand, I was pre-occupied. I saw Ammi fill buckets during the movie, and Abbu lightly holding her hands as I am sure I heard him stifle a sniff too. I loved the pretty Rose and her ardent lover, Jack. His hair was so adorable. I could not get out the image of them standing on the Titanic's end, outstretched hand in outstretched hand. And I hated life for keeping Rose alive. Ammi, if Jack died, why didn't Rose? Ammi laughed out aloud and fed me the chilli beef instead with a fork. She asked me to try the strawberry milkshake. She could not tell me why Rose lived so long.

Ours was an arranged marriage, and Akram was really nice. In fact, he was largely lovable. They ran one of the oldest cane industries in the city. Cane furniture. Ammi's obsession with artefacts, and how the treasure hunt led her to Akram Salim. The reception was held in The Oberoi Grand and that is where my memories flooded back, like in Titanic, how the sea filled the lower bunks in an urgent rush. We did not 'date' persay, but we were comfortable with each other. Within a week of other wedding formalities, we left for Switzerland. Life was right out of the books for me. Abbu turned our house in New Alipore to a palatial opulence and Ammi's boutique now had a branch on Sarat Bose Road. The M-800 and Cielo are no longer there in the garage, giving way to an Innova, an i20 and a Mercedes E-Class. Nor are Daijaan and Daadajaan. Murshidabad money made the Mercedes possible, many would say. What's wrong in that? I graduated with a decent degree in English from Loreto College, and never entertained late nights, though Ammi-Abbu often, contrary to how our community was, encouraged me to go out and be with friends. 

Akram Salim was yet another page off the golden book of life. He was a good husband, and becoming a fast friend. The complaints I heard about husbands from my friends were not remotely present in him. He behaved, meant, looked, earned well. He was partially well-read and enjoyed movies and football. In fact, his enthusiasm with football made me enjoy ninety minutes with him too. In short, the honeymoon was a success. On return, I took over Wafy, Sarat Bose Road. I had a car to my disposal and the helps at our Tollygunje flat, which was also a gift to the newly-weds, took care of the cooking and cleaning.

Eight months of conjugal life passed in a colourful jiffy. Akram returned last night and asked if I would like a vacation. He would like to 'get-away' for a week, and Star Cruise was an ideal location. There was nothing to not agree with. We would leave in three weeks and I began the planning and packing. On the day of departure Singapore Airlines, funnily, even upgraded us to Business Class. My life is wonderful!

The cruise set sail from Singapore. We had a pleasant two nights of luxurious living on water, accompanied by private sunrise and private sunset. Yet, by the third, I felt I was losing sight. No, not literally. Whenever I sat to soak the saltiness of the surroundings on the deck, I thought we were heading towards an iceberg and the captain was keeping it away from us. Everybody planned for me to drown in the depths of the night. I would go underwater and meet Jack. Jack in his adorable golden hair. This was the day for which I was raised as a bait. By whom? Somebody inside me did try to rationalize. And why? She tried harder. Her voice drowned after sometime too. 

Akram was becoming aware of the symptoms. I was unsually at unease and really restless. The doctor on board put me on traquilizers and classified my churnings as sea-sickness. I was turning pale and one thing I remember is asking Akram if he knew why Rose was alive. The look on his face conveyed he comprehended nothing. Each half of the day he would offer prayers in our suite so that I would be fine. I decided to.

On the dawn of the sixth day, I woke up, took a long hot bath, had tea in my room and dressed my best. I even applied kohl and lipstick. I, then, slid next to Akram, caressed the tuft of hair on his temple and kissed him. He opened his eyes to my classic maroon smile. Immediately, he was happy. 'Oh, Wahida darling. You are back! Allah is great!' 

'Would you like to watch the sunrise with me?' I asked.

He rushed for a bath and came out neatly dressed and ready for the deck. We went, hand in hand, towards the stern bulwark. The handrails were done in a dust gold. We stood beside each other. He spoke of things I did not understand, or did not listen to. That he wished for such a morning perhaps, or was it a business deal? I ssshhh'ed him quiet and pointed towards the rising orange of the east. Both of us breathed in an air of satisfaction. And then, as if I were no longer me, I pushed him off the rail. Into the sea. Nobody noticed. I had to find the answer myself. How could Rose survive Jack?

This room does not smell like nursing homes are told to do. I smell the soft white roses and cleanliness and service. Isn't this supposed to be smelling anitiseptic? An old doctor in white hair and white beard left with me this diary and a pen. And said, 'Write. Write whatever you wish to.' You did well. Shut up voice inside me. My language is not as good as poets and novelists. The doctor will like it. Shut up, voice. You are stupid. A piece of writing asks for a reader, not a doctor. Oh right, I am stupid. And you are a murderer. A cold-blooded murderer. The nurse came in with a glass of milk and some pills. Ammi is here, she said. Would I like to meet her? 

Would I like to meet her? 'Yes!' No. 

I will write later. Will you now, Wahida? 

Years of New Years

2012, New Delhi. I was invited to my friend's party at his aunt's terrace. Others from the Doon batch of 2009-10 were invited too. Others included the prettiest girl of our class, Rashmi Rathore, Welham Girls. We used to date while at school. Like many other couples, we broke apart too, by the time we were in the first year of our college, in different cities. My name is Kunal Vohra, and I am not going to lie to myself on this page. Understandably, because of my striking capacities in football, I was quite a rave, especially amongst the girls. Hidden in the hills, our hostels were the best days of our lives, and I can safely say a 'we' because I know I am correct. Rashmi would be there. We would be doing a sleep-over. Anupam Bose was the creative genius in my class, a sweet, lovable, nice chap. He is now a graduate in Fashion from one of the top institutes of the country. His elder sister, cousin, used to study in Welhams too. Mallika Bose was seven years older to us and I know so much about her because she brought us boys a lot of food in her annual visit to the town. Exotic bengali dishes -- Chital Machher Muittha, Thor'er Chop, Dim'er Devil and the absolutely baffling Malaai Chingri. A bag of blessings would unravel from her as she fed the group. Mallika, in her smile that melted my heart faster than the chingri in my mouth. I always kept it to myself but I developed a thing for her and harboured it rather preciously through the school years.

Anupam hinted that I would have a room to myself, indicating if I would like to use it to revive the Rashmi-relationship. Little did he know all I went to the party for was because of his cousin, Mallika. I was on time, relatively well-dressed and mingling soon with his family and our friends. Rashmi looked dazzling in her tight jeans and an elegant, flimsy top. The New Delhi winter was respected only by a flimsier shawl, draped around her neckline. I smiled at her and thought of our woody kisses in the overcrowded town, carefully trying to avoid attention. But where was Mallika? I was disturbed to not find her. People were noticing my drift. I excused myself from Anupam into the kitchen to fetch myself some ice. And there she was.

Mallika appeared as if she never aged. Gracious in her smile, and sensational skirt which did not fail to cover the slit, she looked as comfortable as the aura about her. Her halter neck top made me go bonkers. Her shoulders were visible beyond the Welham scarf. The hair was loosely tied. She looked at me, 'Kunal?', and walked up to hug me. Warm, as ever. Hot, as ever. She was irresistable. I was weak. After the hug, I managed a weak 'Hey', and smiled nervously at her.

'Look at how tall you have grown!' The Bengali exaggeration. I was still shorter to her by a good two inches.

'Malaai Chingri? Like the old days?' I asked.

'Yes. And some more delicacies. Here, taste this.' She handed me a fry of something that looked chilli-shaped. It was gorgeous, befitting of the occasion.

'Are you staying over too?' she asked.

If I could, I would tell you, just for you. 'Yes. The boys plan to drink barrels tonight.'

'Of course! I will join in too. You must. Now, take this to the terrace, will you please?' She handed me a big plate full of those chilli-shaped fries. I took it in a manner which touched her hands, slightly.

I wondered if she deliberately overlooked the immediate sensations which set my being into fire.

We drank. A lot. All of us. Anupam, me, Ritesh, Rashmi, Nikita, Satwik, Priyam, Sebastian, Charlie and Neha. The uncles and the aunts. The younger kids. And, Mallika. At midnight we all screamed looking at the sky and hugged each other, intoxicated with the alcohol and the fireworks. The bonfire dance was a joyous riot. I could not see her. Looking for an escape, I went to the loo. I went looking for her. And there she was, on the phone, lying on the sofa. Her slit moving upwards the knee, her fingers circling the glass. She looked ethereal in those soft lights inside the room. I went up to her. She saw me and finished her phone call. 'Happy New Year, Kunal. Where are the others? What are you doing here?'

'Hey Mallika. Which should I answer first?' I was aware I was speaking more than I do with her. She looked oblivious -- like a seasoned drinker would behave with others new to it. I sat beside her. She sat up. I took the glass off her hand and laughed as she fought to have it back. And then, softly, I asked her. 'Would you like to have a cigarette?'

'Sure. But not here. Come.' And we walked out to one of the balconies. The fireworks were still on. She pushed the door behind her shut and asked for a light. 'So? What did you study?'

'Fuck, Mallika. Have a great year.' And I kissed her. On her lips. If she was shocked, she did not let me feel it. The sky lit up even brighter as we kissed deep. Years of fantasizing came alive that night when she sneaked up to my room later. Mallika Bose in my arms, Mallika Bose of my dreams, Mallika Bose is mine. That was the best night of my life. Hell, it was going to be a tremendous year.

***

2015, Kolkata. All through the evening I eyed Kunal. People say older women cannot have boys. Kunal was devastatingly seductive and I don't know how I survived his charm. He went to his room with Rashmi that night. That sleazy, chic chick. Good choice, Kunal. But I could give you more. You should have known. At least she can never give you such diary entries.

That night never happened.

Mallika.

300 Blacksheep Bleats

Hello, Reader!

When I had begun blogging, somewhere way back in 2005-6, I never knew I would stumble upon such a towering instance of blogging instinctively a decade hence. I went through a lot in these ten years, 2005-15. A decade called life, if we were to put it simplest. Today, reclined over my notebook -- a gift from yet another of my earnest listeners (she insists I read out my blogs to her) -- I am buried in a sense of revival. What is this ultimate phenomena? I write, you read, I write more, you read along?

Do I inject something each morning after having brushed my teeth to write? No. Why do I forget my own pieces? And yes, it is offensive to be so forgetful. Yes, but I don't know. What goes on inside my right-brain cells? I really don't know. What triggered a story, a letter? Well, you know it -- I don't know. Having confessed a series of negatives which I am sure you will all believe, please also believe that if there is the certainty of one thing which keeps me going, it is the consistency of your reading. Pieces must have fallen short on standards of plot, characterisation or language, they may lack the elevation that art demands, but your readership. It is the one thing that has led me on. Your unfailing love. For a serious commitment-phobic, you have caged me in my own creativity. It is a good thing. 

When I was very, very young, a schoolgirl, I think, studying in class two, I had this deep intention to see my name in print. It evaporated somewhere in the race named career, thankfully only to return. I wish for it to emerge now, victorious. I owe it to you. And you. And you, and you too. Does it sound a blah, a bleat? It too, is a good thing. This. 

Thank you for reading.

I wrote, I didn't bleat. Maybe I bleed. Words. 

Fragments, Fragments.

Firoza Jehangir Bharucha was named after her birthstone, Turquoise. Born into an extremely wealthy legacy, she had scientists and poets and businessmen and fashionistas in her illustrious family. The Jehangir in her name was her father, divorced, when she was barely ten. Jehangir Bharucha is an industrialist and philanthropist, married to one Gloria Lynch, a once-top-model in England. They now live in their sprawling mansion in Edinburgh. The family also owns an entire floor apartment in Cuffe Parade, Mumbai, among other properties. The original Mrs Bharucha went on to marry Jehangir's younger brother, Shiraz, and have a son, Zubin, and a very beautiful daughter, Mehr.

Business was booming, children were growing and in fact, the reverence Shiraz had for his elder brother was sometimes too evident in the manner he treated his wife. As Firoza grew up in the midst of sumptuous luxury and adequate attention, she never quite felt the loss of a family. When she came of age, Jehangir proposed she live in the Cuffe Parade apartment, and should she so choose, by herself. She did.

Firoza, fresh out of London School of Business and Finance, joined Jehangir Constructions. Zubin joined it too, armed with a Yale degree in Law, while Mehr made it to the Royal College of Physicians. At the dirty business of property handling, the half-siblings were cordial, not too friendly. In their new roles they avoided each other in a strange manner. Their childhood summers were erased in an instance of a greater unknowing of the other. The employees could sense the apparent discomfort that traversed between the two.

Last Friday, at the annual board meeting of Jehangir Constructions, Papas Bharucha and Children Bharucha were present in wholesome pomp. The common Mother Bharucha was present too. Profits were soaring with the influx of riskier ideas from Firoza, protected by the cunning guard of Zubin. The family was to celebrate the success with an elaborate dinner in the Cuffe Parade apartment. Vista of Taj Lands End was taking care of the private catering, which left Firoza with all the time to take care of her looks. She had carefully selected the wine and whisky menu.

With equal precision she decked up in an off-shoulder black dress, richer in its self-embossed intricate pattern, reaching up to her knees, with nothing but a diamond belt going through her waist. To the left of it, very subtly sat a sound stone, a turquoise. She wore high Jimmy Choo heels and diamond studs from Tiffany. And a Longines, and a generous swab of Chanel No. 5. The night began early. Future deals were discussed over kingsize lobsters drowned in champagne. The teakwood of the dining table lived up to its capacity of ten and phone photos of Gloria and Jehangir's son, Cyrus, was shared. Zubin's eyes returned to Firoza. She looked out of the world tonight. Appealing was an understatement. Inaccessible, her imploring sensuality.

Papas and Mama Bharucha left. Zubin remained. Firoza and he were both trying to avoid the impossibly persistent attraction. He was dressed in a tailored blue shirt and a Ralph Lauren beige trouser. Two tiny turquoise cufflinks adorned Zubin's wrists beyond Shiraz's Rolex. Firoza called for more wine.

'So?'

'So.' Zubin was nervous. Very nervous. All that was on his mind was to touch her. Kiss her full lips, open that black dress and take her in his arms. No, he wanted to tie her hands behind her and make mad love to her. On the floor, on this couch. Under the shower. 'Dinner was splendid.'

'And?' Firoza sensed his discomfort and wished for it to passionately cut across the relation in which they were tightly tied. She sat in another sofa. 'Albums?'

'Sure.' Why the hell? All I want is to undress you. Kiss you. 

'Alright. Wait then.' After about two minutes which seemed two months long, she came back to the library, armed with three thick albums. Zubin got up to help her and was secretly amused, and relieved, when she took a seat next to him. He came closer as they opened the first.

They flicked through the first few leaves disinterestedly, till they came across a photo in Edinburgh of the entire family in a picnic. Mehr was busy with a ball, Firoza with a sandwich and Zubin with his shoelaces. 'God, Firoza. Look at your teeth! They were ridiculously large.' At the moment when sibling friendship could have taken over, Firoza fingered the sides of the photograph with her nails, and asked, 'And now?'

Done. She had taken the first step.

Zubin took her hand slightly and moved it to close the album. He shifted its weight from her lap to his, looked into her face, shyly, and said, 'You are beautiful.'

The unrest grew. Strategically he shifted his gaze and continued, 'Aren't these Mum's earrings?'

Firoza touched the studs, smiled and replied, 'No. These are mine. But same as Mum's.' She struggled with the lock in an attempt to open it. Zubin grabbed the instant. 'Here, let me help you.'

He came closer, attending to her ears. She smelt of Chanel. And she smelt of nerves that were obviously giving away. 'Firoza.' He whispered in her ears.

She turned her face and froze in that frame. They were too close to move away, thousands of needles pricking each bit of their senses. She moved towards her glass. 'Firoza,' he hopelessly spoke aloud.

This time, she took a swig from the glass and touched his slight stubble. Too close again for comfort. 'Isn't this wrong, Zubin?'

'What?'

'This.' As she touched his lips with hers, softly.

He was breathless. 'Yes. Wrong.'

'Come with me then.' She got up and led him to her bedroom. The walk felt like being on a tightrope. Her waist singing, her hair dancing. As she clasped the doorlock, Zubin grabbed her from the back and entangled her in a kiss. A full, endless kiss. The bodies refused to get away. Hurriedly, he opened his shirt and pulled her towards him. Firoza, though desiring the same, was taken aback. His hands found the dress's opening and swiftly pulled it off. Tumultuosly, the night was spent. The turquoise stone remained testimony to their coming together in a breathtaking fantasy.

As the first rays of sunshine touched Firoza, she looked even prettier. Zubin scooped her nude body into his and this awoke her. 'There is a problem, Firzi.'

'What now, Zubi?'

'I don't know if you will believe me. This is embarassing too. Especially after last night.'

'Oh baby Zubi boy. Come out with it. What happened?'

'Firzi, I love you. I always have.'

The silence was, as they say in novels, defeaning.

'Don't talk to me of age, Firzi, nor of relationships. Mum and Papa. Think. They won't have a problem.'

Firoza released herself out of his grasp and put his shirt vaguely on herself. She looked strangely sexier semi-dressed. 'Zubi. It is just the night which is speaking. The weekend will wash off all the love. Don't complicate things. Get up, get ready and leave.'

Zubin was without a word. He knew Firoza too well. She spoke what she meant. 'I won't leave.'

'Fine. I will then.'

'Firzi, please. I have always loved you. Listen, please.'

She went inside the bathroom. Daringly, he followed. She was brushing. Slowly, he removed the shirt and touched her back, his hot breath on her spine. Quickly, she washed her face and turned to kiss him. 'Firzi, please.'

'I have to take a bath. Leave, Zubi.'

'No.'

She went inside the bath cubicle and opened the shower, wet, all stings of desire awakened in her. Zubin entered too. They kissed again, and made love all over again. 'I love you, Firzi. Firzi.'

At the breakfast table, sipping her orange juice and taking a bite off her omlette, Firoza spoke. 'What will Mehr have to say?'

'Is that a yes, Firzi?' Zubin's eyes glistened.

'No, stupid. I was thinking. What will she think of us when she comes to know of the last night?'

He was silent. Thoughtful.

'What do you want, Firzi?'

Firoza smiled. She put down her fork and looked straight at his face. She looked as if she had memorized this dialogue since childhood, a performance that was waiting to be unfurled. 'I want Chhote Papa's watch.'

Zubin unclasped the Rolex and gave it to her. 'Yours. And?'

She rolled it on her wrist, let it sit clasped and admired it, with all the time in the world. Then, shifting her gaze, 'I want your share of stocks at Bharucha Estates.'

'What? How do you even know?'

'Yes, Zubi. Each one of those.' That Chhote Papa carefully did not give me.

Silence. Zubin knew this was rehearsed and practised. 'And?'

'And. You will touch me every way you have ever made love to any woman. And abstain from them, hereon.'

This was unexpected. 'Will you marry me, Firzi?'

'We will see, Zubi baby.'

'Will you always be like this, Firzi? Conditions and all?'

'Always, baby.'


Amidst celebrities and celebrations, the half siblings became man and wife. Firoza was content. She would now own businesses of the Papas Bharucha. The turquoise shone in her waist out of the onion pink lehenga. A testimony to her character. Colourful. Precious. Eternal.

She had always loved Zubin. Never more than her business acumen though.

That night, under the Cuffe Parade skyline through the window, diffused by wedding flower curtains, as Zubin lay exhausted and tied to Firoza's passion, he wondered if this was love. 'Firzi?'

'Forever, baby.' The turquoise shone.

Wish Woman

Its the weather, thought Kaavya. It must be the weather.

She sat in a room surrounded by books, from ceiling to floor. Stacks of information lay like musical instruments -- collected, and collecting dust. This room was her home, yet the books clawed up to her with expectations, which when she tried to fall asleep, sounded something like, 'Open us. Read us. Know us.' The soft lull of the air-conditioning was cruelly distorted by their chorus. Peace was a chocolate winged horse in a turbulent blue sea. Wishes appeared in a harlequin pattern. 

She moved on to the next page of the book in her hand as the black coffee beside got thicker and cold, attended only by faraway but fulfilling little sips. The world was screaming about equality of the sexes and for the breakdown of patriarchy. Perhaps it was time school-books incorporated the idea, this needs to be felt off an established concept. Perhaps I could pitch about a revision of school syllabus to the Feminists of India. Perhaps it will then become a further fallacy like Compulsory English and Environmental Studies. She opened a new tab and clicked on a link offering 'Deals of the Day.' How swiftly thoughts slide into an unknown terrain, by a known act. Let me take out the rice now. I can heat the fish later. Oh, I have to call Snigdha. Get going girl! Kaavya slowly rested her elbows off the bed-table and on to the bed and started fiddling with the TV-remote. Harry Potter please, I want a Harry Potter movie. And started watching the appetizing and alluring images of hotels and food. She closed the book and put it away. Slowly, she got drawn into the extremely gooey cheese fillings and the lusciously rich suites. It was an involuntarily lapping up of the sins to voluntarily do away with the studying.

But it was the weather. It made her feel like a fool, a happy fool. A sad, happy fool. She bent her neck and looked outside. She was in an uncomfortable position, but the breeze demanded her surveillance. Its gonna rain, I must bring the clothes inside. And behaving as if the command came from a Commanding Officer, Kaavya leapt up to get the clothes. Pizza, pizza weather. No. The rice and fish will be left over. Yes, rice and fish. No, pizza. No. I have become fat. I need to be sexy. Nobody will touch me. Lets get done with the bath. As she went to fetch her towel, she paused the moment to find a favour in the weather. It began raining. From a melodious drizzle like a flautist to thunderous drum beats, it rained.

How she wished for wishes to come true. Just for a day. By a sudden love-letter, accompanied by a square of surprise, carefully ribboned. Wavered only by the joy of seeing a face, which could love, intelligently. To be out of this room, her home, into a day beginning at dusk, well dressed and well smelling. Into a road of monsoon driven leaves carpetting the wheels. Off into a region of bountiful sky to the front and generous greens on either side. All the while the tinkle of butterflies raising a flurry in the stomach. He had to have a furnished house in the outskirts, waiting to be occupied just for the day. By the master, and his new mistress. Kaavya did not care for the word. It was just a word for all that she wanted for a day -- flowers, attention, love, touch, all of which came in a beautifully done package of words. Not to be read, or written. To be heard, felt. Lived. 

The day would unroll in his arms, all that she wanted. She would unwind in a day of love. A day where she would be wooed. Like a woman. I need to adjust to the lenses. Where her curves would come to life by his fingers. I need to be sexy. An intense afternoon intoxicated by the squish of beer breath in between. I need a haircut. Spent with all the wishes-come-true.  I need to have the bath. 

Kaavya had a beautiful bath, leaving behind in the bathroom a pronounced trace of fruity woodiness. Very alive. As she ran her fingers through her wet hair she went back to all the minor events of the day she needed to return to.

Do we want wishes, do we need them?

The Chair

When she was born, the only thing the mother had wanted was the right to name her. Sadiya was cut off from her family because she married a Hindu, Marwari dentist, Dr Neeraj Maheshwari. Herself a dentist, Sadiya named their first born Azeeza. And precious she was, for she was born of loving and doting parents. Her name created a stir from the time she could recall. It was strange even for the most international schools where she began her schooling and later in the boarding school where she completed her boards. Azeeza Maheshwari at college was an element of surprise. She was demure and dynamic, and flashed about in her mother's embroidered kurtis and torn denims. In the three years of studying International Relationships, she sported three different hairstyles and having excelled at most of the oration oriented competitions, managed to win a scholarship to London School of Economics.

Today, clad in her well fitted denim shirt that revealed her contours beautifully, and her nearly-faded-into-a-colourless-blue pair of jeans, she walked out of a certain bungalow, the wall coat nearly as faded as her jeans. As she waited for a taxi she chanced upon the name. It read Baraka. At dinner she decided to have the dialogue.

'Ammi, Papa, I am not accepting the scholarship to LSE,' as she chewed on her mutton bone. She sat in a very lose t-shirt, the sleeves of which were cut off hurriedly over a very hot pant. Dr Maheshwari made a quick eye-contact remark about it to Dr Maheshwari. Azeeza paused to drink the green ghol. And paused a little longer before beginning with a stammer. 'I -- I -- Papa, I, have more to say.'

Neeraj was too used to things running smoothly outside his screaming chamber to not be nervous with his daughter's confrontation. They lived in a posh locality, amidst posh furnishings. Dialogues hinting at dispute did not belong here. They belonged to silences. 'Why not LSE?' He continued with the kheer.

'Do not ask her. She must go. She will.' Continued Sadiya from her cucumbers dipped in curd. She was nervous too. Azeeza never allowed unpredictability. This was dangerously new. Azeeza smiled at her mother and signalled for the jug to be passed on to her. It contained more chilled ghol. 'Have the kheer, Azu. Don't try and fill up your stomach with liquid only.

'No Ammi, it actually helps my digestion after so much biryani and who said I won't have the kheer? I will have after sometime. I am watching Friends tonight, the entire third season. You can join.' She refilled her glass and began, 'Papa, Daadu told me about where Naana-Naani live.' She looked at Sadiya. Sadiya thought she misheard the information.

'Ammi, I have been visiting Naana-Naani each summer. I am not sorry for that, or that I never told you. You would create quite a scene and I was not ready to let you spoil my visits. Ammi, Ammi, I am not asking you to go back, you can breathe.'

Sadiya was silent. That was all. The silence was icy, and tall. And uncomfortable.

Azeeza looked back at her father, 'Papa, I thought I should let you know that I never discussed what caused such a rift between Ammi and them. Ammi, listen, they are well by the grace of God and doing really well in the carpet business that they run from home.'

'What business?' Sadiya let out.

'Carpet. Oh, Naanu is super smart. He gets these fabulous stuff from Kashmir and sells them to loyal customers who always wore his tailored clothes line. And, Naani!'

'What were you saying about LSE?' Neeraj butted in.

'Yes. So I have been helping them choose the design and communicate with the artisans and the shiz. This morning we finalised our first exhibition which would also have a half a day workshop every alternate day for the first week. It will open at Studio Forty Seven. I will give you the invite tomorrow morning. It will be really nice if you both can come for the inaugration, which will also mark my debut as a curator and co-owner of Baraka.' She returned to the mutton bone.

Sadiya slumped in her chair. Azeeza's speed was too fast to catch up with. 'Baraka? Azu?'

'Yes Ammi. I really liked the name. Naanu-Naani and I decided to sell the carpets under the label Baraka. It is a concept -- the carpet of blessings.' She finally gave up the bone and fished half a potato out of the serving bowl and put it on her plate.

'Does the garden still have the white roses?' Sadiya asked from a distant past at the head of the table.

'Yes Ammi. But they do not bloom so often.'

Opposite Azeeza, Neeraj was relieved that their daughter was speaking in such a matter-of-fact, non-dramatic manner. He was proud of her upbringing, and at this moment was even happy that she would not go to study at LSE, or pursue the business of teeth. His parents would be so happy to know that Azu went on to become an enterpreneur. He went back to a time when she would insist on staying back with his parents and the next day he would be told that she went with Daadu to their factory, complete with her tiffin box and waterbottle.

'By the way, Ammi,' as Azeeza relished the last bite of the potato, 'Naani told me about the chair. Since you gave it up long ago, I hope you will have no problem if I use it. We have turned the library into an office from where I will be working, and the chair sits behind the big table, also from your room.' Her plate was smacked up as clean as food had never been laid on it.

Sadiya knew the chair. It belonged to her grandfather, a freedom-fighter and a poet. He worked as a columnist in the leading Urdu and English newspapers. When she was a child, she used to go up to his room, stand up on a tool beside the chair, force her grandfather to open his mouth and look inside with a torch in her hand. She had an idea that if you looked deep, you could see the many houses of the chocolate insects. Her grandfather indulged her in the game too and used to egg her to find betelnut houses of paan insects. And when she was a little older told her how a pun was meant to stain as much as a paan did.    

'I want that chair. I want it in my chamber. Please Azu.'

Azeeza smiled. 'Naani said you would. Of course Ammi you must have the chair. It belongs to you. Take it from Baraka, your room. You belong there too.'

As Sadiya spent a sleepless night in Neeraj's arms, they could not decide if all this was pre-planned by Azu actually. Meanwhile, in her room, as Azeeza felt precious at the thought of bringing together her parents and grandparents, over Friends, she could not understand the value of the chair. She had almost sold it for a meagre three thousand rupees.

She decided it was as invaluable as the kheer. 

One Ingredient Only

The terribly young Mrs Singhania tucked in the folds of her saree exactly an inch below her navel. Vedant liked it this way. He hardly mentioned it, as much as he hardly specified any of his preferences, but she knew he liked it like this. She would have liked him to like it like this. Her husband was quite unlike the other steel barons in his family. While at XLRI, he pursuing a degree and she, a diploma, they were made to marry in a wedding that only a dream could size up to. Ever since, she realized he was the wrong choice. She was a miserable misfit amongst her friends and family. Vedant Singhania didn't quite allow her many luxuries she wanted to indulge in.

At the swimming pool, she felt left out when she did not have the suspicion of 'other women over my man' to tell tales of. At the salon, similarly, no brotherly disputes to linger the nail coat upon. While she would have loved a good banter at parties on how he tortured her each night, or did not, she could impress neither. He was endlessly satisfying. In short, Vedant's greatest enemy was his unbelievable self. He did not permit a point of problem to arise. He loved her too much and she, she loved him back too. She was ruthlessly angry when she wished to abort the first time she conceived, and he agreed. Not that he would have minded a child, she knew, he just respected her choice and decision too much for her own comfort. 

Not to say he was hen-pecked in any way, Vedant was, to put squarely, too good to be true. He was sensitized, sweet and sensible. And selfishly, Shailja could not bear it. He was even loyal to patches of her madness. They were teamed as a happy couple with nothing rightly wrong about them. Except that she could not be her normal self of bad mouthing her husband, and then living up to his demands and restrictions and yet throwing the most lavish party where she would be labelled as his success story. Just as in good old days grandmothers and mothers and aunts were. She was not.  

And Shailja Singhania was short of that one ingredient only. She was a good wife. The only life she ever wanted, that of no-work and all-play was at her disposal, yet, she failed. She failed to become the suffering wife. The champion of all suffering wives. 

Billboards of Promise

On a dull day that could not be duller, the only thing that promised Mridula a respite of sorts were the series of washed billboards. Faces from the bus next, looked down trying to snatch a precious peek into the insides of the dazzling Audi she was in. Sudhir wanted a BMW, a black one, while she couldn't care less. Her reticence was misread as her disapproval, and instinctively he bought the white A3 instead. This time too, she couldn't care less. The car would be chauffeured around by the uniformed driver and mostly plying Sharbari to and forth. And then struggle in the assigned parking lots of malls and main roads. 

As she left behind an extremely unwilling Sharbari at the montessori today, parading out of, what would appear to passers-by, a rampshow of clothes line, she took out of her Fendi a petite notebook holding her events of the day. Sudhir was in some other city, she lost track of whether it was Mumbai, or Jaipur, or Bangalore as long as it was India. There was a brunch at the Woodstock Club, along with the fine ladies of the Bridge Camp. She would then pick up Sharbari to drop her off at her in-laws' for the weekend. Mridula calculated that she could fit in a quick swim before she dressed for the brunch. As she put back her notebook into the bag and looked out of the window, the pace of the car transferred her attention to the billboards. Sharma-ji had taken the outskirts route back to home, and yet it was thick.

The billboards glistened with last night's rain, some had a cut through the middle -- an evidence of the lightning storm. These billboards did not speak of the various sales offered at the extravagant shopping malls. Instead, these were hastily done billboards, rather plain in their fonts and colour and content. They offered addresses of clean highway rooms and substantial highway lunches and chilled highway beers. Swiftly, she noted down couple of addresses in her notebook. 

As she settled for the summery club skirt and skimpy top, and finally threw a scarf around her neck, she double checked if her duffle bag was properly packed. Couple of trackpants, clean t-shirts, a jeans, a shirt and a very, very sexy backless dress. She also put in her slippers and the heel. Having earlier asked Sharma-ji to join back on Monday, she drove the Duster to Woodstock. Like most times, she was a sensational hit -- in her game, in her appearance. She left the women hungry for more challenges and gossip, but was allowed only because she had a toddler to transfer. 'Sharbari Basu Mullick' said the I-card, as she took up the surprised child and placed her in the front seat. She had never quite liked the heaviness of the name, but like most things in her life, she stopped caring. The Basu Mullick-ness of things was the net of decency that coiled her desires like an underwater beast. She longed for a breath of sky. The billboard gave her one.

Mridula Basu Mullick checked in at one of the clean highway rooms, signed under Rupasree Dutta. She called for a plate of heavy highway meal, rejecting all fine palettes of nutrition as prescribed by her dietician. And a crate of chilled highway beers to be stacked in the fridge of her not so white, not so warm room. As she pulled up the quilt to keep away the cold, she went through the rest of the promises in her mind.

Sudhir was a genuinely nice husband and a terrific father but he failed her longings. Remarkably consistently. She was filled up to the brim with a burn and a thrist, an itch and an ache. Mridula craved for a shot of pure ecstasy. Or dirty. The billboards on the highway had an asterisk explaining a line at the end, visible only to careful, or informed observers -- We take care of all your Desires, ALL. The caps of the 'all' lured her into daring an act which her body could not resist. It offered her a promise. 

As she signed Rupasree Dutta, Mridula smiled nervously. It was rare, paying in cash. They understood. She knew they understood. The manager offered to show her her room and on their way in the lift asked her, 'Are you expecting someone?'

'I am. Can I depend on your discretion?'

'Would you like to select from a range we can offer instead?'

'That would be nice. After lunch please.' Mridula was now in complete control.

The doorbell rang, and she opened it to the manager. He handed her an envelop from which Mridula carefully selected a delicious looking, ample armed, boy-man. The manager confirmed his availability at 8 pm in the local pub. She paid him double of the ask. And tipped him a silencing handful.

Her backless dress opened a line of jaws as she entered the pub. It was not a pub for the mass. She immediately disliked her making a selection for the night already. Tomorrow, she would not. They had a quick dinner of strangely nice silence, an understanding of the others' wants. As they drove back to her room, she opened it to him, and asked him once if he was comfortable. He was, he reassured.

Good, thought Mridula. And entered the bathroom. As she emerged and went straight to him, blindfolding him into a night of impossibly good intimacy, they awakened to a day of novelty. For Mridula, these hours would captivate her taste till a year now, and him, he never knew such finesse existed in women her age.

As she had coffee in her towel, and he had the dripping water off her hair on her shoulders, she felt content. Atleast someone could keep a promise. Something. A billboard.

She laughed thinking how this could be a terrific plot for an author. Her day since yesterday. And willed her to stop at this point. Praying hard that the author would not go onto to make Mridula wake up with a jolt from the lull of the traffic. To find that the billboard only promised locally made pickles found in the highway hotels.

Tonight would be another billboard night. 

An Extra Story

"What is Extra, Momie?" you ask. As if Extra were a person. As I butter our toasts, I pause. Why yes, indeed, Extra is. Not one, but an army of many. Since you obediently had your hot chocolate and buttered toast, I do owe you a story. You must be in your yellow walled, flower stuck, inscriptions within, classroom now, trying to repeat Baa-Baa Blacksheep and confused about where else you heard of the word. I can well visualize the disturbance giving away to relief as you successfully locate Momie's tapping on the keyboard and all the stories that Blacksheep stores. You must be dying to tell Rishika that your momie knows a Baa-Baa Blacksheep. When you return in the afternoon and into my arms after your change, over-eager to share with me your treasure hunts of the day, I will tell you who Extra is:

'What is your name?'

'Aa, Sir.'

'Aa? Are you sure it ain't just A?'

'Sure, Sir. Twenty-six of us are the bastard siblings of the pure-breed A to Z family. Sad, Sir, and unknown too, but true.'

'Of what use are you?'

'None, Sir, as you have correctly concluded. A to Z are too full of themselves to allow anyone else to frame words with. As I speak, I know how hard Nn and Rr are trying to be heard too, Sir, nagging and repetitive that they are, and I assure you Sir, it is not too bad a thing after all. Everyone has a right to be heard you would agree, wouldn't you now, Sir? Look at your extreme kindness yourself. It is exemplary that you choose not to overlook.'

'Go on. Tell me something more about your kind then. And stop the Sir. You can call me Extra. I know a thing or two about the more not always being the merrier.'

'How did you manage then, Extra?'

'Well, everything about me is premium you see. Double the joy, triple the sorrow. I just mastered the trick to decieve.'

'We tried too. We hid behind the dancing star, in queues resembling similar steps. In short, for every star, we became a shadow.'

'Eh, eh. Mistake. Grave mistake. A shadow, Aa, is seen. Invisibility should be your instinctive right to live.'

'I am sorry, I didn't quite get you there.'

'Why, lemme try with an example. You know the Daughter right? This morning, she asked Momie who Extra is. She saw the word scream at her from the cheese box laid out in front of her. Yet, she could not see the 20% sitting pretty on the bar of goodness. It was all the complete same thing to her -- cheese -- which her Momie told her not to have today.'

'I see.'

'You have done a good work so long. Oo has infact been very intelligently accomodative, featuring in good and food, without letting anyone to get to the others' throat. The key thus is to invisibly slip in, and continue living. Someday, an Extra-nice person might decide to discover you, you never know!'

'Thank you, Extra. Thank you from Aa to Zz.'

You are too tiny to understand moral, child. It is difficult and tiring. But should you remember one thing from this story momie made you this morning after you went to school, it should be the flavour. Savouring a fine flavour is an art, love. Likewise, awakening our sensibilities too. Keep in mind that extra is essential too. Your naps are extra nice because I love looking at how you fall asleep, not a care really, about Extra. They learnt it quick and well!

Letter to Chhuti XIII

Dearest Chhuti,

There is a daughter, there are readers and then there is a you. You, with whom it all began. My Time-Out. When I wrote you that dozenth letter, I never thought that I would ask you one day if you knew I write you letters. Today, an august audience Sunday, where you craddled up in my lap, woolballed in my arms and dunked in my embrace, once again you made me feel how much, just how much I love you. I do.

Chhuti. I have gone ahead and done something that is best explained by the world as the most foolish thing possible. Yes darling, I resigned from the honourable and lucrative job at hand of a full-time college teacher. I was called an Assistant Professor. AssProf. Ass, actually. What an Ass! No, Chhuti, don't laugh too hard. K's best friends are from the same field. Grander, Tougher, Legendary Asses. Let us get back to us. Asses are a tough spot to be in! So, this institution I was teaching in and at (both prepositions applicable), wrung my endurance, tested my patience and ended my tolerance. I decided to opt for you instead. You and I. 

Those hilly holidays, those Christmassy afternoons, those sudden long drives -- remember? Why, C has even taken to you. But how would you know? I never had the time to get you both together to get along. I am guilty as charged of not writing to you oftener. Yet, I feel forgiveness flourishing in you when you ask me to make you drink water and tilt your neck exactly to the angle which I ask you to. The mouth of the bottle was too large for your tiny mouth. I feel the forgiveness when you let me draw an anklet on your chubby ankles. The flowers in the chain will fade, Chhuti, but the joy of seeing them grow in the garden of friendship will stay along. 

Such is the beauty of the conspiracy we share. Our strange friendship. 

You will grow, but I will never outgrow you.

I love you, little holiday,

K.

Ground Zero

Remember gravity? 

The counter question came as a respite to the guilt of the chilled beer bottle that found its way to the ground at the precise moment when it was needed most by the battalion of restless cells, all rushing hither tither in her body. All through the day she longed for a long drag of a cigarette and a quick swig of a whiskey shot. All through the dreadful day. Mechanically she cleared the mess and changed into her comfortable night wear and prepared to wake up late. There would be no alarm, no timed bath and breakfast, no ensuing work halves.

The next day would mark the beginning of a series of similar days. She had had this earlier. An overhauling lethargy guiding the morning to afternoons and onwards to a night which had no interesting evening. To another day. Some petty money making, some deep day dreaming, absolutely no ambition chasing and tirelessly lazing. She had seasons of the same wallpaper peeling into other wallpapers of clawing ideas and biting abstraction -- deconstructed pebbles on puzzling puddles, bare branches seated on neon clouds, and rivers shone in electric starshine -- till she woke up with the disturbing shudder of an ugly disturbance called a never-ending now. She dreaded tomorrow. Then.

Remember?

She gave up her timed today yet again and dreaded her tomorrow. Till she remembered that it was a thing of the then. She was armed with a dialogue with the walls this time. Ready to look into the abstraction right in the eye, and rip apart any disturbing shudder that would dare to. She longed for a beer, it was a breezy evening. There wasn't any in stock. The wardrobe was arranged just a couple of days back, and the dusting done. She was going mad, mechanically mad.

The lethargy would give away to a promise towards fitness, the day dreaming to weaving thoughts, the never-ending nows to an infinite nebulous structure. Would. It began all over again.

It was beautiful, her madness. This time. 

Off your Diary

What are the chances that one gives in to an act one has ever condemned? What are the chances it happens to be me, and my sanity is challenged? Impulsively, I respond. The glued chit of paper comes from inside a book that I bought at a second-hand book stall. By page eighty of The Complete Stories of Oscar Wilde, I was distracted. I could no longer concentrate on the charm of the lucid language. The ageing folds of the pressed paper in page one thirty six was the reason. Last night I went from The Remarkable Rocket to the not-so-remarkable paper. Courageously crossing over the lines of my ethics, I opened it. I was shocked to see the name. It was addressed to me. I convinced myself that only thus I went on to proceed. Here it is:

Dear Jasmine,

Jasmine, Jasmine. How is it that you are not here? I am still the lame Maths guy who likes you, and I am still not enriched in my vocabulary. Since our English tuitions if I tried to improve it, it was only to impress you. I believe in reasons. Reasons why you aren't here, even as I am.

1. You never noticed me.

2. You decided to overlook my feelings.

3. Rishi dated you (He has always been my invisible competitor).

4. Rishi impressed you.

5. And your family (He is now a top-notch suited-booted MNC slave after all).

6. Your besties disowned the idea of you and me. 

7. I never wore black t-shirts shining with the quick swish of a blue Nike tick across my chest.

8. I could not afford to take you out to places I have never heard of.

9. Places you and your friends went gaga over after tuitions.

10. You were a topper in English, and I only managed.

11. I learnt of the word 'dapper' from you, and not finding it in the then dictionary realised it must be something I am not. So, I am not dapper.

12. You loved me too but could not face it.

There could well be more reasons. As a Mathematician, I can command possibilities you would not believe in. I am sure there are. As I read Oscar Wilde, I remember your face, and the excitement when you spoke of him, of Shaw. Or, Dahl. I don't think I even pronounce their names the done way. Yet, the oldest thing one can do, the right way known to mankind, is to love. And I have loved. You.

This chit will remain undelivered as I haven't the faintest idea of where you are.

Outrageously, I miss you. 

PS: I wish you were around to smile at the use of 'outrageously'.

Sincerely (even though it is only used appropriately in Letters to Editor),

Akash.

Only if I were that Jasmine, I would retrace my past to find Akash. Or so I think. Having no love life of my own is pretty pathetic. I read books. When I am old and turn the pages of this diary, I will perhaps forget that the addressed Jasmine is not me. I have sellotaped the folds so that the chit feels as strong as the message it could never convey.

Oh Jasmine, you lucky dog. How unluckier could you get?

PS: I looked up 'dapper'. Thank you, other-Jasmine. 

Fancy Feathers

Situated in quite-a-walk from the main campus, the library opened its new arms to the old loyalists. In the months that it stayed shut for repairs, it underwent a severe degree of makeover. The charge against it was that it took to ruins, often in a state of lack of understanding, rather than attention. That it reeked of the ancient, a not so ancient which stays unpreserved. It received a bath in the finest white colour and got ornamented with bigger, brighter windows. The curtains were tailor-made in an off-white fabric, which on windy days could playfully toss from their bold holder. There was a uniform motley of patterns in white. The person who chose such curtains must be an artist. Dhwani found her way to this particular corner whenever she would be in the library. She would pick up the reference books for the day, bring it to the table nearest to this window, settle down all at ease with her knees bended on the chair and release her hair from the clutch to begin the reading, writing, wandering. And some studying.

Having conquered her class as a topper in graduation, she was now battling for the same at masters. This place was her haven. She had no social life of repute that a University student should bask in. Till hours of the library's functioning, one could find her here, like the curtains, like the tables, the books, part of the premise. And premise it was for this was where she wandered into a social circle she would not permit herself otherwise. Currently, Benjamin was her favourite host. She loved visiting him. She was bored of Jung and knew Sartre and de Beauvoir better than she knew her parents. Her premium parents. The father was a moghul of a mass underwear company, and a rising king of a pan masala domain. Her mother hosted parties which would never follow a harmony of cuisine selection. It always dealt in maximizing quantity, options and in effect, waste. Her parents. They failed to understand this recluse of a girl who would stay cooped up in pages while girls of her age from their community would either be busy draping bridal fittings, or fight over a nail polish shade.

Though she studied Sociology, Dhwani actually had ulterior plans. Ashamed of her parents, and further ashamed that she needed them still, for sustenance, she intended to take over the two companies from her father and turn it into one of esteemed reknown for something worthwhile. Something like a pharmaceutical company investing in the research of life-saving drugs, or a human resource enterprise catering to women employment, or simply rule the dairy industry and cater to milk, curd and other by-products. She had chalked the entire plan like the finesse of a Mondrian canvas, not one colour mingling with the other, each one distinct. And then her eye fell on one blue blob of ink on the white curtain, insulting the pristine purity with a negligience Dhwani was not ready to accept.

It was 6.45 pm already. Another fifteen minutes and not a note taken. She could not understand how she was creating these stories as she sat in this corner of the library, badly under-prepared for the end-semester. She managed the last one by the benefit of blessings and generosity of her teachers who warned her about her unbelievable downfall. She would die of shame if her IFS mother and IAS father came to know of her grades. The phone vibrated and she saw the message from the driver. He was around the corner. She wondered where her premium parents would be tonight.

She took to the library, like the library. Shed the old, bathed in the new, daily. 

Letter to Who-are-You?

Hello!

Some months back, newly deep in the passion of daily blogging and checking with the overview of 'readers', I had almost framed a letter to you. Yes, you. Now, as I visit this space, an almost-daily-visit addict and curiously mouse over the 'audience' section, I wish to speak with you. Yes, you. Who are you? 

The statistics tell me you are someone from France, earlier you were from Spain. The timings also indicate your being from United States of America, and sometimes widely fascinate me with United Arab Emirates. These are, and have always been names of countries for me -- places I would one day visit. Along with Germany, and Bulgaria and Romania. As I greedily gobble these names up, I am hungry for more. I am pleased, I am excited, I am touched. That I am read. By you.

The number that comes up beside India is a figure I can associate faces with. The Loyal Four get the link the moment I post, and then hourly the increase. Some enter via social media, some by search engines, some by curiosity and the one which influences me the most, by compulsion. India, thus, is more or less well-figured.

But you. Who are you? Your readership stands as a testimonial to the acceptance of my words. It is more beloved that the colour of your skin, your salary, or your gender. I often wonder (a moment's slip and that is possible), what you get out of reading such stray pieces. When a Ukraine crops up, I feel important believing that the lover in Russia must have discussed and shared the link. I also think how and when you read in Poland and in Turkey and see you doing so in trams, glued to your phone screen. Or, in Ireland, as you change the tab on your laptop, and click on the 'Next Blog' may be?

You see, your anonymity, as much as encourages me, also makes me restless. So, who are you?

Care for a word back? 

You can, at: 

kuntalasengupta@gmail.com

On the Ninth Floor

The sky looked constructed, in lights -- some sharp, some dim, others revolving neon and few screaming for attention. The sky was a sight under the blanket of the heavy dusk. It was going to be a night of impending thundershowers. Loud and long thought Monideepa as she pulled down the semi-dry clothes, wet with their moist smell, from the clothes line. She piled them in her arms and spent an instant longer than usual admiring the events of the sky when she was interrupted with Suyash's shrill "Come in, Mo!". Why the hell has he returned on time today? Why couldn't he be stuck in one of the thick jams, waterlogged till the next morning? Why am I thinking like this? Resigned, she went in.

Suyash Sengupta was an investment banker, one of those easily identifiable Bengali boys who give up their childhood artistic dreams of becoming a poet in pursuit of Physics, or Economics. He did quite well in life to have bought a more than spacious flat in one of Mumbai's suburbia high rises and was chauffeured to his office located in the swanky Nariman Point. When he met Monideepa, back in those Presidency days of extended addas and idealized walks through College Street lanes, he often poeticized such rainy evenings in a predicted elite milieu. His brand of poetry dared to be contemporary and strike a chord out of rural red soil and the glorious smell of the pre-puja autumn air which every Calcuttan is blessed with. He loved the fact that Monideepa, of the English Department, loved her Bengali Literature and understood his poetics. His English was not too bad either, himself a proud Jacobean. This was a dream wedding of the gold medalist good boy and the outrageously talented and popular beautiful girl. Perseverance weds talent.

They looked nice together, comfortable, Mo and Suyash. Since the last twenty four years.

Mumbai was the ladder both were willing to step on for the sake of success. Mo organized camps and workshops and was associated with some of the most renowned artistic troupes of the city. Theatrics was her domain, she ruled it. And how well she taught! Suyash, on the contrary went on to his own office-space, and the travels around the world, with exclusive invites to after-parties and previews of exhibitions. Theirs was a life one would have never dreamt of from the clogged lanes of Calcutta. Their son was in his teens, studying in one of the most premier boarding schools of the country, also a success story.

The only thing left, perhaps, was a party. To host a grand Twenty Five years of Twogetherness -- that would make the couple immortal in the leaves of a large life. It was two months away, and every time they sat to work on it, their differences came alive. The guest list was way too varied, their cuisine preferences poles apart, their themes not allowing for a bit of confluence. The distance they grew in taking their common steps exposed the unease in their living. The poised pretense was dismantling.

Mo was ready for the evening from the beginning of the year. Yet, since morning she did not know if she was. Why the hell has he returned on time today? Why couldn't he be stuck in one of the thick jams, waterlogged till the next morning? Why am I thinking like this? Resigned, she went in. As Suyash spoke of more options to the cocktails, Mo quietly slipped an official looking envelop into his hands. Divorce, he was thinking. Divorce, she should have filed for. But it was not.

It was an invite from one of Vienna's Theatrical Society slated for an August date. The party would not be possible. "You knew it all along, Mo?"

She handed him her tickets and the itinerary for the month next. She would be travelling with her troupe. "Use the time well, Suyash. Live. Think. I would too."

Letter to Daughter VIII

C,

It is wondrous how an alphabet begins to comprise the entire world that you are -- the mad world that you and I live in. Momsie is a little upset in general, darlingplum, and hence doing madder stuff with you. Sometimes, not just events, the hours themselves are so cruel that it becomes a task to outlive them. Worries of an indefinite, indistinct tomorrow often keeps me so egged that I forget to make you your favourite hard-boiled egg and give you a sunny side up instead. Sorry! 

Momsie generally loves you fiddling with the car-radio, but cannot give you an excuse for why she put you on the car-top, angry at your excessive channel-changing. You must have been scared, right love? Momsie cannot begin to figure what makes her talk too much about an Inside Out and then not take you for a show. Forgive her, little one. She is at her exposed best. Vulnerable and injury-prone. Yes, like when you are at your evening rounds in the park with your undependable skateboard. 

People say momsie cannot stick to a thing for too long. May be. Maybe not. How about she were never meant to do all those things ever? Even once? People call her fickle-minded and restless and obsessed, and I look at these letters to You and I wonder. No. Yes. I-dunno. Have you ever felt so about momie, C? Am I not allowed more mistakes? What is it that brings upon us that we cannot commit, or repeat a mistake? Age? How awfully ridiculous! A mistake is done by mistake after all. Even with the world's caution, and the universe's prudence. 

That jar which comes with this letter -- yes, that precarious, delicate glass jar, complete with the red ribbon and the thick, happy, gold C stuck in the knot -- is for you. I want you to put pieces of your mistakes in it, in written, sticky scribbled notes, of course. And once in a while, let's say, in two months, or in six, take them all out and read them through. Things like, Sat on Tucker's Tail, or, Ate Five Spoons of Nutella, or the more serious Hid Momie's Specks in the Shoe-rack. In fact we shall read them together, and I promise you child, have a nice time over them. Mistakes like Tore a Page out of Chhuti's Exercise-Book or Painted Eyes on the Computer Mouse will beget a line or two more.

In short, we will go through our mistakes and move on. Unapologetically. Something, Momsie wishes to do all the time, but fails. I wish she would sometimes, scream, like you do at people on the road who try and shoo away a stray dog, or at me when I ask to draw on your chubby ankles an anklet. Goodness, the "MOMIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, NOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUU!!!!!! Not in pink colour!" feels like I am in a stadium. Share with me some of your under-thinking, and just-doing. Momie needs it.

I am so glad I could write a letter to you in one of my direst wobbly state. I can almost feel your tiny healing hands going through my soul with a, "Yes Momie, do it!"

In and out of jars,

Momsie.