Letter to Doubt II

Hi,

We could not grow apart, could we? Nice to meet you, after a long, long time. You know, I was actually emerging a winner, bereft of any bit of you, day by day, moment after moment. But being smart and genetically wise, in whatever little that I am, I admit, I cannot deny your existence. I have grown, remember that. It took twelve fucking years for Leo to get that fucking Oscar, so yes, to get you out of the system, will take its own long years. 

Until then, I have decided to give you another chance, as opposed to you giving me one. Come, be with me and let's see me beat you. I will not remain quiet this time -- to give you that space to creep inside my skin and swallow my words, my thoughts. Do you know how it feels to sweep thick layers of shadows from the soul? Oh no, you don't. I have done it. It took me three decades to start believing in myself, and I am not allowing anything to come my way to contest that. 

I have seen too many characters shrouded in clouds and then becoming stories made of reality, fragrant of fantasy. Some remained, many downed. Not everybody can always remain a winner. But I am a sure survivor. I invite you to a duel, anytime, anyplace, and we will see who topples whom. It takes a whole lot of sobriety and genuineness to come to terms with one's own self, and now that I have touched upon that bit of me, I promise I am not letting go of her. She is protected, call it luck, call it love.

While all of this might not remotely sound a threat to you, but since you dared, this is my reply. Face me. Let us fight upfront and without masks. 

Intelligently, smartly.

Never yours any longer,

K.

Duty-Free

Duty Leave is such a blessing, if only one knows the tricks to conjure a conference into a vacation. The last four days have confirmed how injury-prone I am, but the saving grace has been the living -- at home with the world. It felt living amongst the foothills, by virtue of getting a room with the valley-view. Academic fraternity was over-ruled by the overwhelming hospitality of the host college's students and faculty, extending to the hotel's attendants, ranging from the reception, bartender to sweeper. Duty free.

I found my friend, from Bhutan, the peepal tree at their campus. Have you heard its leaves? They sing. They paint an escalation in the rhythm of the rustle. They are mesmerizing, enchanting. We kept the sea at bay, there was too much of other things deserving more attention. The unending rise of the coconut trees, the moon, as faithfully as ever, following us, and of course, the time -- it flew, galloping with wings. Duty free. 

Responsibilities are so much relaxed and well-performed if left at one's will. Falls can become stepping stones to rise, higher and higher. Flights, falls, waves, academics -- I have defeated them all. The return flight had a tremendous turbulence, but well, I was air-concentrating on the movie. Later, I was air-writing, air-driving and basically battling the certainty of uncertainty. I tried to imagine the pilot, what would he be doing? Basically, it would be something like getting off Park Circus bridge! By the way, the world destination Goa has a sympathetically small airport, which means the queues for check-in are longer than serpentine and I learnt that flights too have to wait for a parking availability, post landing. I travelled to South Asian countries, China, Turkey, Dubai, Europe, Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai, Pondi, but Goa's airport was a shocker. It brought me back to basics. Duties.

My takeaways? Whether or not your airport has a duty-free, it is always advisable, within India, to travel to Union Territories, oh, for the joy of duty free alcohol. Bud and Heineken at 80/-, Kingfisher at 30/-, and single malts at alarming low prices. But even better? You can have it all. You are after all Duty free.

Wobbly Waves

Of the many horrors that haunt me, one is the sea is, which is why I was very happy with the river-ride. It was definite, as opposed to the infinite. But this morning, we visited the Majorda Beach to greet the Arabian Sea, which makes Goa, Goa. Needless to say, my stomach was rumbling, and I could not imagine myself getting wet for more than a minute. In fact, it did get worse, even as my friend held on to me with all her compassion, for she loves the sea, I felt the feeling which comes each time the sand slips from under my feet.

But miracles happen. I, of all people, very well know it. I was severely pukish, and right then she told me to look at the light moon right opposite the bright sun, which I had earlier introduced to her. A very faint moon, playing hide and seek with daylight, with the clouds for company. I looked, and then she said, 'look at the distant ship'. I obeyed. Left without a choice, one often does that. Then she went on to grip me tighter and almost as if she had rehearsed this earlier, 'Kents, look at the mid-section. It is the artist's space. What happens to you when you get a page to write or a book to colour -- still.' She continued, 'the waves are only the surface, unsettling, fighting, but at the core there is rest'. Deep. I was in deep, deep shit. Philosophy amidst waves. 

I cursed her in vernacular and that calmed me. It actually made sense. The frothy white waves attacking me could not really eat me up, could they? Gosh, G is incorrigibly correct, each bloody time! This time, some kind of spirit took over me, and I held her and said, 'Let's walk further'. We did, she smiled. The back waves seemed like authoritative pythons rolling its way to swallow me, but I said to myself, it is not anything but water. She now warned me of three waves were coming up, rather aggresively and that I should walk back. Hold on. Patience.

I let go her arm, and said 'let me face it. What would you say if I suddenly decide to take a jump into the sae?' She was flabbergasted. 'I will say when I see you jump!'

'But I may not survive, no? Tell me', I nagged. She gave up, 'Do whatever you want man!' All this took part in the fraction of a second, mind you. The three waves were nearing. I let go of her, and walked forwards, obviously not jumping, only because that it would ruin my wonderful hair. Earlier, she taught me a tactic, 'just shift left or right if the sand underneath deepens too much.' I am a great instruction follower. Staunchly, I vigorously, looked at the froth attack right in the eye, and stepped ahead, one at a time. The waves hit me well over my knees, and when they returned defeated, I looked back. 'I did it, dude!'

As I went back to her, more or less victoriously, she smiled and screamed, 'Proud of you! You did it, all by yourself!'

We bye-d the mighty Arabian together, and me, as I walked back in the weight of wet pajamas and sandy slippers, leaving distinct marks on the beach, I, I was all the while thinking, and I thought I was wobbly?  

Fallen Woman

While the key-note address goes on, here I am, back in my room, white page on my lap. I am pretty fallen, surely, you would think? Tell you what, I have a better story. As we proceeded towards the Refreshment, a wee bit late, with cups of tea and coffee between my friend and me, the balcony called out to me. By the way, we cannot see the sea. There was a huge swinging hanging-chair though, one of those rounded and full. Cushioned in art, and as you would know already, anything artsy invites me. So, I declare, 'I will sit on this!' and settle myself down. Boom! It went down. Trust the weight to do it. My beloved friend kept laughing, as did I, thankfully proving I was not hurt. Participants all around were shocked, as you can imagine. But, I? I was not.

Reclaiming authority, I asked the volunteers to have the damn thing removed. Fallen woman have a lot of luxury, we get to rest, we are anyway tainted. Bones and soul intact, I decided to give my head a rest rather than tire myself out of the agricultural inputs I would be in, now.

My friend generously supported my decision to rest and just when I claimed, 'Fallen Woman', she came up with a better one -- 'Show-Stopper'.

My presentation begins post lunch, but she insists, it has already begun!

I am fallen, in freedom, while she, she is seated, tied. The colour of my saree is royal blue, blueblooded my spirit. Dare I deny my presentation has started? 

International Food Conference, Goa: Starters

'Food can cajole, victimize and exploit,' spoke the convener of the conference, about some twenty minutes back. It is an international conference. Dollops of words on food doing the rounds around the delegates, in whispers. I am yawning, after my favourite breakfast of toast and sunny side-ups. My friend beside, is diligently taking notes. Now she is giving me a smile through her eyes, because Her Excellency, the Governor of Goa, is delivering a humourous speech in Hindi and it had the dialogue, which I had, over the breakfast, delivered to her as a respectable sharing of information. This Governor is brilliant. She is speaking things which has made me forget my yawns. My good friend is eye-dropping over writing and it is not one quite of approval. She does not understand, or may be, she does, I can't sit straight. My fingers are itching, and I am thinking of Mandavi.

Man, I have never seen a politician as smart, and speaking wonderfully from her heart. Her first born came in 1963, so you have an idea of her age. Like the depth of Mandavi, and her flow is immense and alluring. Rather, delicious!

Truly, food is a wonderful conversation-maker. I rest my case. 

So you see, the best bite comes from words! Hope you enjoyed my relay-writing. 

I think someone should make a movie, or write a book, entitled, Khaane ki Kahani. Maybe, I will.

If I cannot, I will, but of course, gulp the failure with a feast! 

A Promise Fulfilled

A plentiful river, an even beautiful breeze, glorious hues of sunset and hoards of homegoing birds. This was an evening, from dusk to nightfall. Some spare moments of silence spoiled by noisy music of the day and a ride to remember. As one watched the lighthouses gleam reflections on the river sparingly, I kept observing the birds. Seagulls, perhaps. How mighty were their movements, how controlled speed and what sharp turns -- the grey of their wings contrasting with the orange of their beaks, almost as if in a conspiracy with the sunrays. They were returning to the greenest verge and with the little light remaining, the whites seemed like blossoms on the verge. They were home. I was away. I am.

Stars were visible, in plenty. And as I tried counting how many, I noticed a fleet of birds come in from the other direction, along with the westward wind. Their whites were a little blurred, hazy. And they resembled shapes in the sky. First, a dinosaur, then a giraffe and finally a snake, floating amongst the clouds. Electric lights came on everywhere. As did conversation. Smokeless, concrete.

Everything was happening in the sky -- the fear, the freedom. A little bird, I thought, was being given training by a parent bird -- the flapping of the little one reminded me of my fear of flying. All across only water for it, and for me an enclosed space in nowhere-land. It survived, I survived. Both of us failed, but we went on. We flew, and returned home a survivor.

I emerged from a sudden foreboding sky back home, and a heartless rain, just before I was about to take off. It was choking me, but I decided against the medicine. The flight brought the best out of me -- Inside Out.

The content made me enjoy the evening further. Mandavi -- it is a beautiful name. My next character will be her. Mandavi, the warrior. In the distant somewhere, there must be the Arabian Sea, but Mandavi has a definite line of distinction we call the horizon, the borderline. The borderline between fear and overcoming it. It remains, and each time is a fight. But, winning -- winning becomes a habit, like whiskey. Spirits soar, as do seagulls.

It takes you back to highs -- fearless highs. 

Flying

I am quite embarrassed tonight. I have a flight in some hours, and I am afraid. I thought I could defeat it by watching Neerja. If anything, the straws of my coffee know what rigorous shapes they had to undergo. There will be a fantastic companion beside me, some fabulous movies in my notebook, SRK songs on my playlist, and, an SOS medicine. I cannot believe I have reduced myself to this today -- the SOS medicine part. The turmoil lies that I do not wish to take it, and a sane part of me says, don't be a fool, take it!

Fear, Doubt, Anger -- haven't I written a letter each to them? Is this their kind way of replying? To overpower me? The clouds have kept me company, cottony, fluffy company, as have the hues -- but now, I despise the window seat. No, it ain't vertigo. It is just me.

I will watch a movie in sometime, and have abstained from alcohol. But I could not hold myself back from writing. For all those who would be reading this -- pray. Please pray that tomorrow I emerge a warrior, a survivor. Pray hard that I can defeat the challenges and write back to you as a happier me. Be with me. 

For, when I fly, I think of you. And you, you and you. How constant you have been. You do not deserve a breakdown in a habit -- no, not from me. So, pray. Pray that even as I fly, I write and the words reach you without the click of a button. My words empower you to never suffer, to always be just and happy. 

I promise you, if I land a winner, you will be treated with a wordy high of flying, you have never experienced before. I can feel it, my gut says all will be fine. Their won't be sweaty palms and blood gushing to the ears. But, who knows? 

It is, after all, the gut that triggers the tremors! Love.

Room of One's Own, Anyone?

Space -- it has become such a concerning subject, especially in psycho-social and academic circles, that Virginia Woolf's body needs to be fished out of the river in which she drowned herself. From the longest time I can remember, it is a room one wishes most for oneself, yet, sometimes when its constant walls come upon them, all they need is to rush out of the door. To more space, open space. What a thing it is! Allows you to be, behave and breathe. 

Last night I was not high at all, I solemnly swear, I did not drink a drop, yet I felt bad for certain beings, which has triggered this post. I was back to my room, after having attended a social event, in my brightest smile. But the books in my room, glared back at me, bored -- most of them haven't moved an inch in a year. Whatever little movement takes place, happens within couple of shelves. I felt bad for them, they must be so bored -- stuck to the space of shelves, at the mere mercy of the reader's whims.

Later, I was engulfed in a profound pity for the organs, trapped inside my body -- their room.  And most of all, for my kidneys, who were stuck at the back. I genuinely felt miserable at them not being able to float up to the heart and knock and wish a 'Hello', now and then. They would function better! Or, the liver, taking in all the alcohol, might also be feeling a wee bit tipsy in these many years and want to perform bhangra and go down to the knees and do a jump there! I was literally finding it impossible to pacify myself from this over-sympathy I developed for my organs. The gall-stones may want to meet the eye-balls, who knows? What about the backbone wishing to bend and all the way into a circle, like it sees the intestine do? Or, hello, the blood? How come they don't feel trapped in those mean things called veins and blah? I think they could easily abdicate their blue-bloodedness for the want of some air.

Imagine the body, like space, in which astronauts float about, and return to their station. It is not completely impossible, is it? Who said, they would like to be in their one and only room of their own, forever? It is nice, to be out and venture into the unknown or the faintly familiar. Have you noticed, spatial and special are almost homonyms? No body outside my room takes me seriously.

I conclude, I will be a miserable warden, in this mean world. 

Work Works

Coming from a procrastinator, the title is inappropriate. However, no religion, no faith, no support works a miracle as good as this. From battles to brothels, from cures to characters -- work is workship. And I do not mean 'come, let us become workaholics!' All I assert is lets please love our work, however much we hate it, for that bit when we have committed ourselves to it. It works.

And, no work, really, is ever big or small. Coming from a family which has major highs and even more major lows, the necessity and ability to sleep without food one day, and lavish at a five-star on another, is a kick. My family doesn't understand education. As in, degrees. All they know and encourage is passion -- be it art, or business, or failure. They always give you a chance. Those who work on it, will agree, it works. My family also understands two other values -- simplicity and gratitude. Without a doubt, even if my parents do not leave me a penny or a property, I will be proud to have inherited their characteristic warmth and hospitality. Their flaws and their attempts to work on the flaws. That works too.

After three decades, I am finally friends with my parents. And it does not certainly mean pally-pally friends, but it defines an engagement in which decisions are mutually arrived at. It defines an ease that they give me because they are non-interfering, even though I live in their house. And it scares me that they are gradually becoming over dependent on me. Where does it all fit with work, you must be wondering. I am too. It does actually. These are the ladder rungs one which each little step, cautiously takes you higher. And since you are grounded, your fall -- which is definite -- is one from which you can bounce back. I do not know if I am making sense. All I know is, if you are welcoming a guest to your house, give them your best smile. If the garbage man has collected the garbage, thank him.

And work, bloody hell, keeps the demons away. Build your world of work. Mine is this white page, each day. It is nothing short of work, if this is what I do to keep living. Teaching is my means. And a noble work. Having tried all shortcuts, I can safely say, while some work, most don't. Just work. Mine is done.

What's yours?

Deathly Hallows

The immediate association one has with the 'Deathly Hallows' is, undoubtedly, Harry Potter. Oh, what a delicacy it would be indeed, had it stopped at that. But no, I realized, I do not know the meaning of 'Hallows'. As I looked it up, it surprised me, the meaning -- something honourable, holy. Holy shit! I had so long thought it would be something closer to 'hollow', as in depths. Deeper than comprehension, larger than life, closer to fantasy, further from reality.

My vocabulary needs a polish, I noted. But I come back to the subject I fear the most -- the death of a near one, and the occasion of overpowering consolation. Opinions, tears, decisions, rituals -- name it and they tie you with the impersonal. The living is no longer a being, it is just a body. And you are merely acting in accordance with someone else who will be pulling the stronger strings. It is unfair.

All I would need is the power to accept, to face, to cry and a firm shoulder. All you would need is the comfort of silence. Yet, it is made grand, almost like DH Part I and Part II. Death and the duties. Isn't it disturbing? Why does it bother me so much? We are born to die, and if we make most of our lives, we make it large, yes; but death? How far from ready are we about it? Each time it gives us a new blow. 

Interstellar made me a generous forgiver. I couldn't fathom the theory of relativity of time. Life goes on. That is all. Some are born, some die, some more are born, again to die. We keep behaving as if we have dealt with it. I haven't even come to terms with the truth of it.

Have you?

No, it is not hallows. It is an unending hollow.

Letter to Chhuti & Chinky II

Loveliests (NO! Don’t fight already!),

Babies, if you do, you will only spoil much of happiness that can always possibly be. I know C is already angry that she has to share a letter with you, Chhuti, but you are wise, aren’t you/ Forgive her. Her Momie is really happy after a long, long, oh dear, very long time.  Now, now, let us figure out the hows and whys of what could easily be told in a simple word, ‘Whatever’. But dearests, it is, unfortunately not so. I do care. About many a things and among them, fear ruled the most. I assume it is good to say I have defeated it. And we are going for a holiday!!!

You see, Momie was at her flirtatious best last night, with five pegs of good whiskey down, and all senses intact. She has two more of such nights to follow and the possibilities to remain the same are exciting. Of late, Momie has cleared her specks really well, and can see things as they should be. She detests studying, yet her second chapter is submitted and she can feel her progress in her professional discourse (why else would she be using a horrible word like ‘discourse’ here?). Momie is getting Momier, shall we say? Yes, my puppies. Being anxious is boring, being anxious is unnecessary – yet, one really cannot control it. But Momie has become adept at handling it. Momie can identify the triggering factors. And you both, blessings that you are, are such adorable beauties to not demand my time when I write. I owe you both my life for that.

When I am dead and gone, read these letters and love them, as much as you have loved me, as much as you have hated me. But for now, we will speak of living and living it large, that Momie is capable of. The cloak of confidence had decided to turn invisible, babies, hence Momie went mad without it. Over many hours and many more moments of quaint and loud adversaries and adventures, Momie is now vocal. Momie does not care, where she should not. And Momie cares all the more where she should. Like our holiday! Yippee!

Together, we will brave the flight in some days, and sit trapped in it, but with Aunty G beside, we might have a giggly time, for all we know. No more watery palms – that’s quite unhappening of a smarty Momie like me, what say? For a change, we will together brave the waves and not the heights. Goa, as a destination, brings back a bag of memories, smelling rather foul, and vodkaish – which Momie has almost given up. This time I promise to make memories which smell of nonsense, of flavours of the unknown, of being grounded and not wobbly. It is a smell which will waft through our school-bags when we return. Momie will finish her paper in a hurry, and return to you both, lapping you bubbly littles in her arm, promise. I will also do something wrong, but what’s wrong if not tried? I will introduce you to a sip of beer and gin and tonic. One sip each. Please. And we will build sand-castles along the beach in our bikinis. Oh, you thought Momie doesn’t have it in her to adorn a bikini? No, babies. Momie discovered, she has it. One of the twins mentioned last night, ‘You are sexy in the mind.’ Nothing can beat that, lovelies.

Does this sound full of myself, this letter? Forgive me then. It is just an irrepressible joy at having found this long lost me. And who better to share this with but You. I wanted to tell you, yes, life is about cyclicity. The wheel turns. Braving the bumps is sexy. That’s all! And now, we pack!

And before I end today, I will share with you something you can use later, when anyone asks you about Momie. A certain gentleman, and in the process many more, last night, asked me, if I were a Punjaban, an Urdu scholar, an Assamese or what? I asked back, ‘Are you Haryanvi?’

'Yes', came the reply.

Momie smiled, took a sip of her amber whiskey, and said, ‘Look up the word tomorrow morning, when you are back to your senses – in the dictionary. I am an enigma.’ And the moment was seized, when on further queries, I replied, ‘I am battameez!’ Yes sweethearts, Momie is everything. You can be so too. One life, babies, live it – just the way you want. Pay due respect to what deserves it, pursue your passion and banish the fears. The simplicity of it all will show you a new world, happy.

Let’s kill Goa, babies!

Momie.

A Tangent Touch

Middle-class is a bad state to be in – any state, at the moment, anyway is – yet, to be economically middle-class immediately associates you with the concept of mentality – not quite liberated, most often conservative, but striving to reach out and touch that which is not. Mrs Dutta lost her husband in a matter of a second one night, when everything else was scripted – the fan was in full swing and the slight sound of its circle added the lullaby to their dinner, roti, chana-dal and chicken curry. They were sleeping a sound sleep, complete with each others’ snores, done with a day. In the wee hours when Mrs Dutta came back to her bed from the washroom, she was surprised to find no snores greeting her. Most of the consolation came in that he died a blessed death – no suffering, in sleep and peacefully.

Married quite early, their son was already around twenty when she became a forty-two year old widowed entity, which she insisted to impose upon herself by taking upon the whites like a garland of decorum. Arindam took up the father’s position, having ably graduated in Law. Suffering and self-control led them to come to terms with the sudden absence of the father of the family. What time had to heal, it did, or so it seemed. Mother and son, both, missed Mr Dutta.

In four years’ time, the son’s wedding arrangements began – with the one he loved since they were in school. Money was managed well by the extended family, and everyone was happy, in general, for the mother and son. “If winter comes, can spring be far away?” Even their honeymoon was a gift from one of the rich relatives. To put it squarely, their square house fit the feelings rather well.

The bride was home. Or, the world, one could say, if the square could be seen as a circle. It was a week into the marriage, and invitations filled up their slots. In most places, the older Mrs Dutta was invited too. Who wouldn’t like a graceful woman nearing fifty, delighting a party? She was an example. They still didn’t buy a car and stayed in the square house, their rooms next to each other – walls of which were not very well constructed. If one paid attention, from the other room, they wouldn’t miss the sounds of pleasure emitting from the room next. And it was not just the sound of love-making, but also conversations and snores. One could almost be in their room.

As was our Mrs Dutta, Senior. Happy for her son, and having no complains with his wife, a certain sense of loneliness gripped her each night, running through the day. She did not miss her husband, but she missed the intimacy of touch, and the privacy of conversations. Not knowing how to deal with it, one day, when Shraddha was off to her parents’, as she laid out the breakfast for Arindam, she suddenly slipped her hand inside his shirt collar, from behind.

“Why do they have an entirely different design inside?” she justified her act.

Arindam, quite obviously taken back, relieved with the justification, replied, “Style.”

Mrs Dutta confronted him and touched through his shirt buttons, meticulously not missing his skin. “Oh, they have the design on the button lapel too?” Arindam smiled nervously. “The fish is quite well made, Ma.”

“Made them with my own hands” she continued, as if in her own thoughts, and showed them to him, “Don’t you think they are rather special?” And almost as if back to the square, she said, “Magic!” and dissolved the tension with a laugh. A very silly laugh. That evening, Arindam was told by Mrs Dutta, Senior, that living in separate households would be a good idea.

“No, Ma. We don’t need to! Has Shraddha told you something?” Mrs Dutta, Senior, kept quiet.

“Arindam, I want to be on my own.” She came close to him, too close for comfort, touched his cheek, in a manner which conveyed the entire message. “Please.”

And so long we thought Jocasta couldn’t have a complex? 

I was speaking of the apartment community in which Mrs Dutta, Senior, went on to live in, hailed as the ‘perfect mother/in-law.’

A Knight in White

Diligence comes in different colours, and not often does one wear it on their sleeves. Mr Animesh Biswas was hardly the kind. Each morning, on his way to the police station, he changed from his colours to the whites of the Kolkata Traffic Police uniform. Mrs Biswas was unable to yield a child to the Biswas family in their four years of marriage. His father passed away last year, taking along a hefty amount of savings for his treatment. The widowed mother was homebound, and all the more verbally active. His tiffin was carefully packed by Protima, his wife, perhaps the only change in his regime of roadway. The only thing remaining, which portrayed a shadow of concern from her end. Everything else, was like the traffic lights – stop, get ready, go.

Couple of days back, he had pulled a car for the driver not wearing her seatbelt. Prarthana Sen. “I teach in the college nearby, Sir. I just opened it. I won’t repeat it, Sir. Please Sir.” He let her go. The thought of her lingered on his grub of luchi and notun gur. It was her fragrance, and her eyes. They were over-riding with the halo of truth, even though he knew she had lied. When she put up her sunglass on her head, their eyes met and he knew this case wouldn’t earn him the weekend dinner with Protima. Strangely, at tiffin, he didn’t even wish it did. He wished it was with Prarthana Sen instead.

Next day onwards, he was on duty, adept as usual, but a casual mistake here and there did occur, in the hope of her taking the same road, at the same time. She did not, of course. “Thank you, Sir” she had said. And smiled through her jet black eyes. As she pulled down the window, the car interiors had given away a maximum sense of warmth, as if saying it was proud to be owned by her. Her college id made her look younger. She looked better in that reckless age, thinly beginning to line her forehead. One of the rare educated instances where the driver came out of the car and began the conversation. Animesh was already melting with the abundance of gorgeousness that emerged – in the form of greetings, looks, communication – all of which, he knew, deep within, were a lie.

His mother’s words wafted in Prarthana’s soft, polite voice. Protima’s cooking showed the deft skill of Prarthana’s driving. It had to happen that she would cross that way, thought Animesh. And one day it did. Busy in patrolling the sides of an overused bridge, while he was speaking into the walkie-talkie, he spotted the scratches of the familiar blue sedan – Prarthana’s Honda Civic. He wished she made a mistake, uncompromising, so that she would be made to bribe him, and he knew he would ask for a dinner with her. But she made no mistake, and smiled past him, acknowledging the previous help he had courteously offered. The sound of hopes crashing is louder than a truck hitting an auto and the ensuing commotion. A middle-class traffic police, Animesh had to get a hold over his mind. I must stop thinking about her. But, as fate would have it, the next day, Prarthana passed by again, and this time with a definite smile. On the third day, she signaled him to the nearest curb. As he sped on his bike to her rescue, he looked nothing short of a knight in white. Spotless, clean, efficient, alert, kind and very, very responsive. Just as she wanted.

Prarthana Sen sat at the traffic police office and waited for him. She was looking at the new green of the trees, some flowered in pastels of pink and ivy, while other blurbs of yellows popped in from almost, what seemed, out of the air. Admiring the beauty, she looked at the front glass. It was clean, rare for a lens to be so, so as to usher in the landscape amidst the smoke. In the lost process of getting lost, she violated a signal and was immediately hurled with a case. She did offer the name ‘Animesh Biswas’ all she had, all of her truth, and finally asked to report it in courtly decorum. He was taken aback. Barely did people know of this bit of the rule. As she sat at the foul smelling, chamber, overhearing loud remarks of those in lower rungs, she wondered what would have happened, had it happened the way she weaved in that span of waiting for the officer. Just as she wanted.

Animesh Biswas finally came in and clarified the charges and gave free advice on getting a driver and being more alert. She did not bother to hear the rest. He was a knight in white, right behind her, in his bike, flying through the traffic to take in her fragrance, to embrace the romance. Just as she wanted.

It did not happen, of course. When were nights white, anyway? 

Plathitude

Deep into a mess I had never anticipated, which begun only as a severe attachment-connection-love, I am in a land called Plathitude. Sylvia Plath died and left behind much of her life in her followers. I am merely one. One cannot begin to define this plague -- this addiction, this self-identification. She takes over, your mind, your language and then you find she writes letters, among many, one to demons. The demons inside her head. I wonder how she completed hers, her thesis that is.

Time comes to a sudden halt. It no longer takes in the taste of grilled fish in lemon butter sauce or a plate of pasta made with love. I think I will even dare the flight to Goa, rather bravely, owing to my being knee deep in that land of Plathitude. Time stops. Horrors are known, hence fascinating. Writing is curative, yet taxing. Time stops. The earth melts around its latitude and longitude. All that remains is a Plathitude. Concrete, abstract, beautiful, terrifying, fatigued, energised -- a building of binaries, breaking down, slowly. You cannot hear the breakdown, but you are part of it. It is part of you.

You are thinking too many things together and one unified whole holds them together, 'How did she do it? Why did she do it?' Who knows. My friend says, "Briefly, she was possessed."

I have so long agreed. Tonight though, I will not. No, she was not Briefly possessed. She was "Chiefly" possessed.

And we who land up in this surreal mess, swim through the surface of the sky and into the riot of emotions when colours burst, when one reads her. Lives her. 

One begins to live with her. It is scary and loving. The demons are enchanting. Nobody knows who's watching. Whom. In that land called Plathitude. There is no saving. We live. To die. We live. To write. We.

Hullabalove

The wheels of a car, when it speeds eighty kilometres per hour, the whirring of the fan at setting five, the swirl of the washing machine in rapid circles, the perfectly sharpened pencil and the doll’s skirt imagined out of the skimmed flakes, the mechanic tick-tock of the wall clock, a pattern too pure to remain, a paper finely made, an ink meant to linger, a pen dearly treasured, a letter never written – that is you – everything. Everything, and nothing.

You are a hullabaloo, you are love, that makes you hullabalove, my muchykin hullabalove. It makes absolutely no sense, I know, and that is precisely why it makes sense -- it makes sense to me, to our entity. It makes us, us. I am going overboard with my emotions which is against my grain, and hence the drain in language. Let me try it my way -- simple and straight. Love is overrated. It holds life together, but so does the backbone, or the air around. 

If you can have my love understood in grocery lists and I let your choice of fragrance smother the floors with, if you can greatly tolerate my tantrums of dusting and distributing, and I your calculative decisions which clash with my pricey lilies in the living room and still think they are priceless -- then we are speaking love, living it. Washing dishes when the maid isn't around and speaking insurances over a dinner out -- medical, life -- and loans -- car, home, personal. Hullabalove, it is so much more about the beginning of a life after the honeymoon period; about seeing each other in dirty, casual clothes; in outgrowing the love into a habit. A habit called You. That is why I never write letters to you, nor want one. Letters limit. Living makes it infinite.

Often when I begin painting, the palette interests me more than the canvas. The blue mingling with the red and creating a vibrant chronicle of violet. And then you return to find me, the blank canvas for company, as you had left me; if only you could read the paintings that I created in the palette of my mind. Darling, how can I show you what they were -- a bouquet of promises -- till the bell rang and the iron-man came in with his delivery. I sorted it out, and went back to the bouquet, it had already begun to disintegrate and I was racing fiercely to bring back the harmony, and had almost achieved it, if not for the group of boys asking for a donation towards some cause which I do not even remember. Love, you came in and told me I just wasted another day. How could I show you I did not, so I kept quiet. You loved the dinner though. And the intense love-making. 

I am enjoying the drink now. More than the dinner and the intense lovemaking. I am intoxicated but my clarity is remarkable. Like the painting. You know, you weren't a part of it. It disturbed me, but I was at peace. It is not necessary to see everything I do, I see; but honey, you weren't a part of that painting. It had flowers, and skies, and fountains and thundershowers and melting mountains. It comprised little moments of quietude. And you were. Along, but not with. Come to think of it, I liked it, quite. That is love.

Unfortunately none of the above happens. You scream, I do not tolerate. You major, I minor. You earn a salary to run 'family', while I earn for 'luxury' -- or that is what you say. How could we be? I was meant to be like this, quietly enjoying my drink with a love warm enough to fill my heart even when not around.

I will breathe and in some days, get back to living, wishfully towards a life of writing and earning, and seeing paintings in the palette. You will go your way. I will sometimes swim in a lake, think of you, and the hullabaloo you would have created in pursuit of perfection. No, I rather swim alone with the starry skies for company. In the palette. That would be chrome blue mixed with a hint of veridian green, for me to swim. My drink can come to a timed conclusion, to a decision. Call me selfish, yes I am. I will call you nothing, or would you like 'victim'? I can easily say it aloud. Or under my breath, just enough for you to hear. So that you know you aren't.                                                    --  Utsarinee's diary entry, dated February 14, 2005.

I always had it in me, didn't I? To write my heart out? So what if the world is busy availing discounts to celebrate love; you failed, I failed, love failed. Victory went to living. Utsarinee, 14 Feb' 16. :)

Who’s Story?

“The wheels of a car, when it speeds eighty kilometres per hour, the whirring of the fan at setting five, the swirl of the washing machine in rapid circles, the perfectly sharpened pencil and the doll’s skirt imagined out of the skimmed flakes, the mechanic tick-tock of the wall clock, a pattern too pure to remain, a paper finely made, an ink meant to linger, a pen dearly treasured, a letter never written – that is you – everything. Everything, and nothing.”

Sunandini was reading through pages off her own diary, possibly maintained at teenage at an attempt to keep a track of her expenses, now layered with the glow of dust. She fingered on it, a big bold ‘S’ and laughed at how meticulous she was taught to be and what had become of her. These days, she read and corrected what others wrote. Today was a Sunday and she took upon her the cleaning of closets untouched in years. The diary ignited an exhausted flame in her. She knew she would lose, nevertheless she was willing to try. Having had her lunch, she opened her laptop. She typed and deleted, typed and rephrased, typed some more and deleted further. She was happy of her self-assessment that she could not write. From a dark corner at the end of her head though she was in utter distress at being unable to do so. She called up Shekhar and had a mindless conversation, all along channel surfing and thinking about her dead skills. 

Couldn’t the dead come alive? Don’t ghosts exist? Is this how ghost-writers feel?

It was 3 am. Karan Mallik woke up. The mail notification on his phone was set at a high ringtone. He was waiting for this blurb desperately. It was from Utsarinee Mathur, the most sought-after ghost writer in Mumbai. He did not understand a word, and that impressed him. His publisher was after his life for failing the deadline. This time they needed a ‘poetic-fiction-never-before-tried bestseller’. Utsarinee had written a fine novel on something which he couldn’t quite understand, like the blurb, but he knew the hefty amount he paid for would reap insane royalties.

It was 3am. Utsarinee Mathur hit the send button and shut down her laptop. She wondered why she had deliberately delayed and kept Mr Mallik waiting. The money had come. All they wanted was the blurb content. She went to sleep. This was the easiest assignment of her life – she wrote down the life of a ghost-writer – tactile, but untraceable.  

Matters of the Mind

What is, is never, if not another sees it, argues about, or agrees with it. What is, still would be, if one would persist that it is. Is it too difficult to understand? To believe? I’ll try and make things easier. But who am I? A thinker? An authority? I am no one, and everyone, all in one, and that, sometimes makes me someone. Basically, I am trapping you. But I did not intend to.

Maaya was like me, an illusion, a delusion if you must. This morning I was wondering where the memory resides, if neurosurgeons can see memory as a slot, if it yells and speaks that ‘we are’, and ‘we used to be’. She tells me she did too, once. Hers differs from mine, and thanks to my memory, I do not remember hers. So, I will share with you mine. While wandering like the impression one leaves on the tracing paper, the route of the memory, I deviated to where the mind was located. Someone scientific informed me it is an unknown horizon, the concept. And I knew it certainly does not live in the popularized version of inhabiting the heart. But then, something happened.

I saw a mind, flighty, in a cape, flying from the brain and sliding downwards the veins towards the foodpipe. It clearly did not approve of the taste of the soup I had, and hopped to the heart. The mind was boggled. There were four rooms. The brain told it, “chambers, stupid!” Fascinated with the opportunities, Maaya seeped into me. Like you are. I, you, Maaya, all wanted to know what the mind would next do. Well, it entered one named ‘Atrium’, explaining it felt any word with ‘V’ like ‘ventricle’ tend to be venomous. Disappointed with the bloodiness and mechanics of pumping and in-flow, out-flow, the mind moved on. It wanted to travel to the serpentine mess below, but being a mind and completely capable of distraction, was taken aback by the blackishness of the liver. It made a smooth landing and tried to comprehend what its function was. Finding it boring, it made a decision to enter the maze of intestines. Lord! That was indeed some mess! A fine mess. Being of flighty nature, as introduced earlier, the mind lost its way, way too soon in the maze and by now regretted entering it. All it wanted was the boredom of the heart or the safety of the brain to return to. Being condescending in nature, it was blowing out curses at the mess, but never prepared that they would retaliate, the mind crumpled into a little dot and tried to hide itself. Intestines are nasty things, as I know, as does Maaya, as do you, and would not allow the mind to be. They turned the dot into a rubble and pushed it out of the entire system. “Shit happens,” I said.

Thus concluding, that the mind was nothing more than a piece of shit if not well attended to. It asked for attention. It needed to be controlled. And that’s when Maaya entered me. She took over. Like a soul. 

Maaya was often found fantasizing in deliberation. She entered the mind, caressed it, controlled it. I had no say. To be honest, I had no idea of what was happening. And that was when I realized. How could I? It was Maaya’s mind now.

I told you, you wouldn’t see. You don’t see, but it is.