What's in a Name?

Gopaal'er baba, that was his identity. Kaajer Mashi, hers. Rakhi and Smita giggled as they finally managed to sit together. They would make it to SJ's class on time today. Mr Das wondered when he would wear earphones like almost everyone else did around him. He bought the exact things that his wife wrote out for him. But he was most pleased with the tangra. It was fresh, like a flower. Dilip babu spoke with Sunil about the markets crashing, between his teeth, a fluid red line of paan masala. He has been chewing it since the last thirty years, in spite of health advisories others always provided him for free. Sunil overlooked the topic. "India today?" Dilip babu asserted. Sohom was deep in his thick book on Botany, from behind his glasses, he could read all lines except that of fate. The incense-stick seller had already sold his ware to four curious customers. He made a mental note of the bus and its time. Diksha Jalan was finally happy to reach her college without the comfort of her air-conditioned car. Raju looked at Taposh and yelled out the route, luring and mis-luring passengers to board his side of the bus entrance. Sudip was at the wheel, bored with the same route, all the more because he was a very safe driver. Madhabi Samanta was one happy woman. Her pregnancy report came positive. As was Suman Samanta, standing beside her. Gatekeeper Sandip was as protective of the mud pot of hot rasgullas as he was of the Roys' gate. Ramesh broke his oath to self and picked the elderly gentleman's pocket, while he was on the phone with his Boss, explaining the traffic. The Boss's non acceptance worked in Ramesh's favour. Salman Aziz was going through his file one last time and recalling the tips of his soft skills instructor, to face the interview in couple of hours' time. A baby was whining out of the sweat rashes while his mother was not paying him much attention. Arijit consulted his watch, his stop was in ten minutes and his shift would begin in half an hour. He was pleased with his calculated punctuality. Hari had to rush to the nearby hospital to make it within time of the visiting hours. His mother was admitted with a broken leg. And yes, Radhakumari finally held close to her the electronic sewing kit, she could finally buy. These days they came in the size and weight of an office briefcase.

Different radio channels played into each one's ears. Selected playlists in others'. The bus's own sound system was drowned in the hullabaloo of the heat. Within half a minute, each of the channels were breaking their present to them, in distorted, noise-like sounds.

Radhakumari died hugging her sewing kit. Hari understood he broke more than a leg.  Arijit's punctuality was in question. The mother put all her attention on her now even whinier baby. She could barely see him. Salman Aziz was trying desperately to try his luck out of the window. The Boss would now know of the truth in the traffic, and Ramesh realized his broken oath cost him his life. He would never go on to spend the elderly gentleman's earnings. Sandip had no idea. The gate he was used to holding had turned into a river of sugar syrup. Mixed with metal clinks, blood and flesh. Madhavi was bleeding profusely, from everywhere. She shed tears of blood too, her husband lay under a thick cover of glass shards, and in his legs, stuck metal rods, of what she could not identify. He was quite dead, or as she hoped, better be dead. Sudip could hear his neck crack off from the rest of his body, as it lay on the giant steering. This was his first accident, ever. There would be no more to follow. And it was not even his fault. Raju and Taposh yelled out to each other, their non-competitive screams drowned in rubbles. Diksha Jalan's only wish was fulfilled. It could well be replaced by her last wish. The incense-seller smiled in spite of it all, there would be no nice fragrance over his last rites. He could touch his end. Sohom's thick glasses were everywhere, he was in a garden of pages, trapped. Neither Sunil, nor Dilip babu would get to know if India would win later this day. It was sad for Sunil to see Dilip babu die of something other than excessive tobacco. He could also see his left hand somehow clinging to his shoulder. Mrs Das would surely not have fish today, nor for the next fourteen days. The taangra died like Mr Das, quite like a fish out of water. SJ would never get to see Radha and Smita in his classroom anymore, and their giggles soon dissolved into helpless howls. The kaajer mashi's atrocious saree colour made it to the headlines, even though she could not make it out of her head. And Gopaal would have to go bald. His father was the first to be taken out, yet lose his life on the way to the nearest hospital.

Helpline numbers flashed across news channels. None of whom could have anticipated this unpredictable a death. They died in a democracy, democratically. Tragedy came in the form of an engineering malfunction. Families kept calling out names. None responded. One moment reduced them to a number.

Uniform

Narrators need not necessarily identify themselves, and easily get away under the paint of ink. But this narrator wants her readers to recognize her as much as they identify with her characters. I am speaking of Katha of course. What stories she narrated, and with such panache! Had a Penguin or a Bloomsbury had the patience to try her, they would be richer and Katha could well do with the royalties. She had a thing for uniforms. Her school skirt was grey, and gradually it travelled upwards into the depths of her creativity. Does it sound dirty, you dirty mind? I was only trying to build an image of her mind. But then some wise scholar had once said, 'seeing comes before words'. So, you are free to choose your own route. 

Some specific days of the narrator I would like to bring to your notice would be the particular day of Katha, dressed in red, when she was wedded. How she hated that colour -- "loud" -- that was all she had to her defense. Which failed by the way. Nobody quite understood her taste. Eclectic, some said. Quirky, classy, subtle, the rest. As you can well rationalize, these adjectives are all poles away from each other, which, in turn, made Katha feel that she was not just her. I don't mean to scare you. This is no ghost story. All I want to announce about Katha is what she feels. Not that I can assure you I am completely correct, but I think I know her. She felt there were other people residing within her -- Katha, in lime green; Katha, in hot pink, Katha in jet black; Katha in pristine white; Katha in royal blue. And Katha believed those were the original narrators, not her humble grey self. Those were the voices that yielded their plethora of words. If I know Katha well, she would have liked me to write 

palette of words instead of plethora. "Plethora is show-off. Palette is smooth." Yes, that is what she would say.

As I had earlier mentioned, Katha had a thing for uniforms. To think of it, she actually liked uniformity. Medically, one could categorise it as mild-OCD. I would not. She simply liked things uncluttered. This day that I remember, she was on her way to another publisher's rejection logic, when she chanced upon the usual spring yellow mornings clouded in olive. Teams of military men disturbed the essence of spring. To top it, they had guns and were performing antiques of inspection in the name of the upcoming polls. It was a disturbing sight -- the roads were getting cleansed, yes cleansed, not cleaned. The lights were burning bright. The traffic patrolling was near perfect. Ideally, this would be a dream expedition in uniformity. But to Katha, the uniforms working on their perfection were distorting her perception. She was used to the colourful misconceptions -- uniformally hers. 

What can one say about voices? She could not get the available guns out of her mind. I forgot another shade -- bloody red Katha. She wanted people to hear all those voices, see all that she saw. I felt bad for her and thought of bearing the flag for once. There she is, reading this, now wearing a turquoise smile. How else but to splash the red out. She agrees with this piece. Says "It has a uniformity in its disorder." I do not understand what she means. I never did.

I have always remained the much disliked red Katha. I speak of truths. I, too, am a narrator. Know.  

Accidentally

The W's had always kept her occupied, Manasvi. The Whys and Whens and Whats and company. As she was growing up, nothing of global warming, immediate politics or sports fanaticism kept her as concerned as the W's. She was one of those nerdy ones in the class, who would record an interesting conversation at school. This is her entry from when she was in standard eight. She had gone against the grain of her natural mettle in choosing Maths over Geography.

March 9th, 1997. Why do people embarrass me unnecessarily. I do not wish to be the one with 'potential'. I like my cycling, my chatting and my aaloo-chaat. The teachers were correct when they were shocked at having me chosen Advanced Maths. Dumb fools. I just want a letter. Who cares what I pursue after that? I liked the question Miss Catherine asked me though, in her little corner, warm and caring as usual. "What is your favourite subject, Manasvi?" I took some time and answered, "People". No. I think I like my answer better than her question. Mine has more merit. Merit never counts though. Letter-marks do. Hence, Maths!

Manasvi Brahma still remains rather preoccupied with the W's. She persisted with her habit of recording conversations, overheard or imagined, between people, her favourite subject. This morning, while she was at her job, putting carefully selected chemicals on infant plants in her lab, for she went on to become this outstanding researcher, she noticed out of her window, the two sweepers sharing a sly smoke, perhaps considering that researchers never get distracted. Manasvi, however, recorded What could have possibly gone on in their conversation. For her lunch, as she walked out, she was still wondering:

S1: We do the hard work, have biris and these students earn the money and have Wills.
S2: Why do you care? Did you study enough? Hey, how's your son?
S1: I will make sure he studies and earns enough to have Wills. You know that golden packet?
S2: Hahaha. Mine is barely managing the pass-grades. Guess he will inherit my job, and biris.
S1: Hey, how's your sex-life?
S2: Boring. Tiring. Yours?
S1: Same. Oh, the lunch bell. Let's get back.

Even as she was scooping her portion of daal on her rice at the canteen, she was thinking about them. And while she thought, she accidentally used her hands to eat, just like in old times, without washing them. Immersed in chemicals, her thoughts went chaotic within minutes. She was rushed to the medical-unit. She recovered within a week, to resume the experiment, and the observations outside the experiments. The last she remembered of the last week was the greatest and constant W of her life.

What am I even doing here? The stretcher guy has come out of a fight with his wife and the driver of the ambulance is sick of his siren. Well, I should be Writing!

What a Catch!

In the regimented days of the early nineties, Mihir grew up doing sums as he followed an ODI closely. Even as logs could not catch his visible attention, a "What a catch!" from the commentator would immediately do. He watched the replay and wished he could perfect one at the matches played on neighborhood evenings. Neil was an expert wicket-keeper, and Gautam was reserved with the accolades of spin bowling, while the only girl in the team, Meghna was the toughest to get out once she took to the crease. He despised them all. Qualitatively, not quite at par with either, this was natural, but quantitatively, the emotion he displayed was quite the opposite -- no one could ever doubt that he hated his friends. When an Ajay Jadeja would stop a sure four at point, or Jonty Rhodes fly like lightning to the ball, he would imagine himself winning that cap, the best fielder around. None of them took their cricket seriously of course. It was, just a part of their scheduled evenings, when they had to go out and play. Anything. 

This afternoon, as he managed couple of passes to the W20 finals, in one of the premium stands of the Eden Gardens, he looked back into those evenings. Strangely, the hatred for them was deep instilled, even though he was the joke-cracker in their WhatsApp group 'Cricbuds'. He reclined on his VP's leather chair, and wondered what would each of them be doing this evening.

Neil, in Delhi, would be drunk in a bar, or stoned in his room, listening to The Beatles, or speaking with a friend on Formula One, or hunt the kitchen for food. His inheritance assured he need not work, and that kept him happy as a freelance wildlife photographer. Gautam, in Bangalore, actively managing his restaurant, right from the kitchen to the cash. He did well in life to graduate from being a dud to opening his own roadside stand of Assamese cuisine, and taking it up to where it stood now. And Meghna would definitely be going through her academic journal, at her room in Hyderabad, that must be sending her already renowned status of being a brilliant professor, further upwards. She would also, deftly build a salad to the delight of her diet. God, he hated them all. From inside his air-conditioned cabin, from where he could whip a command at anyone, he knew in his heart, they were all doing what they loved. 

His lifetime dream of hearing "What a Catch!" assigned to him did come true, on many occasions, such as clearing the JEE, studying at an IIT, and getting that job at Larsen & Toubro to begin his career with. As he looked out of the window of Jindal Group, he asked himself if the one that earned him the loudest applaud actually mattered to him, like the rest.

The fax came in. Tickets for Mrs & Mr Maitra for the Finals were confirmed. Meghna would hate it, that she would have to travel for a game, but she would also love the fact that she could watch Virat Kohli, perhaps another match-winning innings. And though he hated her for batting best, he got the loudest cheer when she had agreed to marry him. "What a Catch!" everyone had chorused. Their innings is cherished by everyone. 

Mihir straightened his tie, dialled Meghna's number and wondered if it would be correct to say 'everyone'.

A Maximus Story

Even when in the tiniest of sizes, daughters, or children in general have a sense of obhimaan. With an attack of chicken pox and right after, a travel to Dibrugarh, I have been away from C for a considerable amount of time. So, it is but natural that she is answering me in monosyllables when I call her. "How are you, C?"

"No." Whatever that meant! "Did you disturb Naani?" Silence. "Chinkuplum, answer sweetheart!"

"Yes! I keep." Bang went the phone you would think, but it did not. "Momie is coming home in sometime, love."

"OK." This time the phone went down. I realized I must tell her a fabulous story before she is really upset about this distance. That's the thing with children, or everyone. Either they scream, or they go silent. I rather have them chirpy than cranky. So I pulled up my socks and got ready to deliver a story:

Once upon a time, there was a hairy, golden, puppy called Max. He was carefully chosen by his human parents. He had eyes that one could speak to, something from which one would have difficulty to remove contact. You know, he was so lovable, so lovable that he limped. His run towards you would melt your heart. From puppy, he grew up to be a doggy, royal and furry. And one day, even he became a parent to not one, but three little golden woolballs. Two playful sons and one pretty daughter. But grandparents' house could not have them all, so a son and the daughter were sent off to another dear grandparent. Max, was left with one son, Alvin. Even more golden, and now taller than Papa Max, he would be happiest when he met his brother, Snowy, each morning at the nearby nursery of their human-grandparents. Sadly, they lost their sister a couple of weeks back.

With Papa Max limping and not quite able to catch up with Alvin and Snowy's race for a swim in the green pond, reflecting the green around, they know he is around, their Papa Max, should one happen to miscalculate a stroke in the water. Them playing together feels like a ride over a carpet of clouds, except that the carpet is green, with symmetrically arranged pots flushing colours of pink, and hot pink, red and purple, white, and all of those that a colour pencil box may not be able to hold. Sometimes Snowy would topple off a pot in excitement, and the rest would look like a pack of cards being shuffled. Alvin would chase him in a race of who-gets-to-human Granny-first, and they would somehow make it at the right time. Granny would love, cuddle and play with them and finally come to Papa Max, who rests with his new friend. Does Papa Max feel bad that his human-Momie loves him after sometime? Does Snowy feel bad that Alvin gets more time with Papa Max?

You know, the other day, when I was leaving Max behind, he told me with his papa-puppy eyes, distance doesn't matter. He relishes that Alvin and Snowy get the first Granny-touch. He relishes that when I call out to him, Alvin jumps at me for a pat. I learnt a lesson from Max. Miles dissolve, time does not count, even when your near one isn't exactly near. In 'good english', we call it reaching a 'Maximus Love'. But for you, my love, let me just tell you, even when Papa Max isn't around Snowy, he has him as much in his heart as Alvin, next to him. 

You see love, sometimes when Momie isn't around, you have to understand she is right there with you in your heart chamber, about which she taught you where it resides. You also have her in your walls, where we have both sketched clouds and Jerry jumping from the moon! You have her in such letters which you do not understand and collect in your tin-box. You have her with you in all the stories she has ever told you, and the friends you have made in Cheek, Chin, Jiraaf and the rest. You are her Maximus, love.

Even though I would count yesterday, the 26th of March, 2016, as a victory day for myself, when I made amazing friends with the awesome threesome, and did away with a little bit of fear of dogs that I harbour, I will not shy away from confessing that I am highly concerned about how C is going to react to my return, and respond to this story. I know she missed me as much as I am missing Max right now. But I dare not tell her that, even as I tell her "I missed you maximum, baby!" and put her to sleep in my arms; I think of Max's eyes, following me...

A Bridge Half Built

To many, the Bogiveel Bridge in Dibrugarh, has remained a landmark they have been hearing for more than a decade. Closer to two decades actually. It would connect the north bank of the Brahmaputra with its South. Last evening, the Assamese mother and her very Indian son, took us to see that sight. It was a crackling sun at 4 pm when we left the campus. I even asked Aunty if she would like to stay back, but she insisted that she was going to visit the place after four years, so she joined us on her choice. Which meant not taking a nap and still returning to serve us that wonderfully baked caramel pudding. Our host took his trusted Bolero over his i20 and Eon, anticipating bad roads. All packed we began the journey.

Once he crossed the town and entered a completely missable right turn, the sights changed like set-designs on theatres, one after the other Act. We were welcomed by fabulous curved roads, on one side tea-gardens, while on the other, green pastures. Aunty even said she was reminded of the roads leading to the Kerela backwaters -- the road was so smooth. Taking in as much fresh air as we could, after a significant distance, we took another right. Which introduced us to another set-design, after yet another Act. This time the Bolero decision was justified. Roads conditions from my childhood memories emerged, massive potholes and on either side, stones and chips lying unused to fill the holes up. I can safely say, we digested our lunch through that brief ride. Which brought us to the amazing view of the Bridge. Now, I am using the capital B, because from a very young age I kept hearing of something legendary coming up in my town. It deserves a capital, to say the least, of the expectation we had from our town.

Yet another right turn road led us to the banks, an upward drive, and another from it, the roads were fantastic! The elections are upcoming, and we steered our way through two packed campaign cars. My friend had to stop to ask them which way led to the Bridge. They replied we left it behind. So we reversed, and found an insignificant board, alphabets of which were shelved with years of dust, lead into, again, a right turn. The set-design changed. Dare I say road, I had paused for a while. Lane would be perfect, but I would continue for the grandiose of my experience, with 'road'. It was a non-concrete, dusty, literally mud-made one, with enough bumps to give us a welcome towards the legend. 'Great things don't come easy', the roads seemed to speak. A furthermore insignificant board, with the tiniest of Assamese scripts announced we should take a right for the 'Bogiveel Jetty'. We did. The road went from bad to worse. But everything was compensated for when I suddenly, dimwitted that I confess I am, asked, out of the blue, "Are those hills?"

Aunty literally looked at me and said, "No, its the bank!" Okay. Obey. We decided to stop our car when we located around fifty stairs up to the bank. By the way the bridge greeted us at the political campaign turn itself. A massive structure of intense engineering, broad roadway over rail tracks. We were impressed at the pace it had taken to cover the distance. Earlier it was a snail's pace. Now, it would be a rabbit's run. I wasn't interested. It was rather, after the climb, that the setting sun interested me with memories of Gold Spot. And ruthlessly, I claimed again, "but those are hills, look!"

Now. How many paintings have you seen? Water-colour masters? None could come close to the sight that recieved my assertion. They confirmed the holy sight of hardly visible shades, as the Arunachal region mountains. Trust the moon which follows me in most of my travels to light up within. The Himalayas suddenly turned sharper, as I opened my glares and wore my specks. Imagine a light sketch, and imagine lighter shades to highlight the light sketch. Actually, don't imagine anything. Trust me, everything would fall short. It was brerathtaking. The hills over an almost dry Brahmaputra, ferries still transporting cars to the other side, the setting sun, and the Bridge half built. If I may, the sun was setting in the landscape right where the brigde remained unfinished. The reflection of the orange-golden would even beat Turner, The Master. An island by itself, enjoying its solitude amidst it all, and the Himalayas, oh the Himalayas. The pristine air! We were contemplating to build a small house there, to open the window to such sights on weekends. You see, love, love is very, very infectious. And infection, may not always be a bad thing. You never know if the virus would actually be better for your immunity.

As the sun set, as calculated by our host, in another ten minutes, we bagan walking back, expecting the legend to be complete in this lifetime. The mountains smiled at me, and don't you dare disbelieve it. The shades came alive. Breathing still. Their smile within me. The road back was very emotional because of personal stories exchanged. But did anyone say about a Bridge half built?

Hell no. All bridges, always, bridge any kind of gap.  Built, half-built, or un-built.

Letter to Bengal

Dear Bengal,

There is a joke doing the rounds about you – that you are now spelled ‘Waste’ Bengal – and the Bengalis, non-Bengalis and I, have a good laugh about it. We belong to the glorious capital city, which I still like to call Calcutta, over Kolkata. I like the colonial flavour, it is characteristically you – intellectual, artistic and playful. A contest asked me to select a category in writing about you. I chose ‘Others’, but wished there was an option for ‘Everything’ instead.

Born in the tea-garden smelling town of Dibrugarh, Assam, my Assamese speaking skills are more proficient than my Bengali is, but, I dare not deny that I am bred in Bengal. Once I fled to Delhi. I returned. To despair. Everything about you is pessimistic, sad, what in recent vocabulary, one could call you ‘not-happening’. Each time I am back from any of my travels, your embrace repels me. Yes, I am speaking against you, but hear me out. I see cities doing so well, loved so well. In you and for you, I have a certain uncertainty. They call you the depot of nepotism. They call you coloured, sometimes red, at other times, blue. I call you mine.

In spite of all the gloom in employment, the bridges being built perpetually, and your desperate humidity, your warmth feels like all things known. Lanes, by-lanes, lakes, lies, liars make you, you. Your populace was once your glory, I would like to insist. The current generation only complains and finds flaw, including me. We hate the Bengali-mindset, whether the middle-class, or the elitists. We always have a problem with everything you humbly offer.

And we are not completely incorrect. Our fourteen forefathers and feminist mothers have painted an ornamental picture of you for me to grow up in. Now that I am living it, I find you strangely different from their tales. The mishtis and maach have remained, as have football and politics, but, a ‘but’ lurks. You do not inspire, anymore. There is nothing positive about you. Or, I am blinded by my beliefs. It feels bad, believe me, to not believe in you.

Not a champion who would herald the rights of a community or religion, I wish you were as glamorous as Delhi, or as cosmopolitan as Bombay. About the contest, I was convinced I had nothing positive to write about you. Then one day, as I drove on your roads, in a car your bank had sanctioned me the loan for, I asked myself if I was inflicted with your pessimism. Turns out, after a deep thought and a long drive, I was wrong all the while.

Our collective pessimism has made you far from positive. My pessimism about you – why blame others? I still share the ‘Waste’ Bengal joke, but having written this letter to you, I know only you can read it, feel it. No other city can.

I am writing to you, unable to resist myself from rewriting you.

Yours,

Kuntala.

I had participated in a contest with this entry dear readers, which asked me to speak positive about Bengal. The results were announced today. I expected a win, I will be honest. I did not. And now, sitting in my homeland, Dibrugarh, I am bitching about Bengal and 'Bengali mothers and their Bengali sons'. I find it befitting to believe that my letter had a capability to win. It did end on a positive note. But Bengal, now I have reason to understand that because you are you, you 'chose' not to understand its essence. That is what I hate about you, Bengal. You do not like change, you celebrate your stangnancy. I believe in myself, and work honestly towards my passion -- to write. To which, 'Bengal' cannot be a border to obstruct me. Oh no, no, no, don't think that I am taking out my frustration of not winning a contest. Today, I believe in myself, I repeat. The purity of the air here has contained me so much so that I am not even sad. I can only hope that one day, I will indeed 'rewrite' you.

I Am in Love!

And how? It finally took another flight! Flights that I have been fearing to undertake since the last four months. I had my prepared defence mechanisms well, and without the SOS medicine in either of my hand bags. Last night I forgot to mention, my first ambition, ever, was to become a pilot. I still have that scrappy piece of paper in which I kept adding my ambitions. I moved to lawyer when I was detected with myopia, when I was in the sixth standard. I used to think many things about taking a flight when I had begun this journey among the clouds -- how do ALL the pilots maintain a clear vision throughout their professional life? How do they navigate in the sky? How did they know which way to take to Calcutta, and not to Delhi? Were there invisible bridges and highways up there? How could a compass determine a destination? No, it did not make any sense, any which logical way. How on earth did auto-pilot work? I mean, how on sky?

I fell in love with flights, on one particular Jet Airways to Delhi, from Calcutta. I was travelling alone and it was a morning flight. I would be spending a week with my aunt before leaving for Turkey. After the served breakfast of I-still-remember-the-gooey-omlette, I was in a trance of the taste, when a sudden announcement from the cockpit broke my delicacy. The baritone voice informed us of our route, and a special message towards all those on the right side to look out to the Himalayas. I did. I had never encountered such a spectacle before. Terrains of rustic brown heights, untamed, tall. The clarity took me by surprise. It was a terrible, terrible beauty -- the danger of it -- to think that I am the most malleable in that sure, unending structure. It was love. After that, it was such a pleasure to be in the fluffy cottons. I used to write (with my air pressured fountain pen), and write my heart out, befriending them. They were of so many friendly shapes. I even remember once, somebody had taken a doodle I did on one of the flights. Also, seeing me doodle, most of the times, people initiated interesting conversations with me. But, it was all in the was. In the now, I have only shivering, watery palms and racing heartbeats. Till today.

With my defence mechanisms working well, I was suddenly interrupted in the middle of Autograph. Another baritone voice announced our route, across the 'international sky of Bangladesh' into the national sky of Guwahati and Jorhat and then Dibrugarh. By then, I was asking my cousin if what I looked at, daring a view outside the curved dirty window, were clouds, or hills. They seemed too pointy to be clouds. And just at that moment, the Captain declared for the ones sitting on the left side, to look out and enjoy the view of The Great Himalayan Range. All my defence mechanisms watered out. We were spellbound. Vanilla scoops after vanilla scoops of a range of greatness, above Arunachal Pradesh. Silence. That was all I could respond with. I tried taking a photograph, and gave up. They felt like protective parents, overlooking the entire insides. It was mesmerizing, smooth, insufferable beauty once more. Too much to contain. With silence for company, nothing else mattered -- not the boring air-hostesses of Air India, nor its faded curtains, or its scratched windows.

It was a different Himalayan enticement -- polished, refined, silky -- one on which one could keep drooling over. Even as we left it behind, and went on to view the unbearable gorgeousness of the plains, and something, which we could not figure. Was it the river? Was it plains? We stopped caring. The tea-gardens came into view as decline was announced. Settlements were visible. But what remained, frozen, were the mountain tops. It is love. It never dies. It fades and reinforces itself at a sudden moment, like a flash of lightning. 

Like a vector, love never changes direction. Only shifts in magnitude. It doesn't always need a face. Personality is enough. It speaks in towering silence.

Thundering and showering. Love. All over again. 

Air Travel

Coming from a background which is middle-class, we were lucky to avail a yearly LTC, which made the much coveted 'getting-inside-an-aeroplane', come rather early to me. Initially, the mother had taught me about manners and how not to haggle for extra mortons, while the father -- a hospitality expert -- taught me unintended lessons in how to help others before helping yourself. Yes. Exactly the opposite of what they tell you a minimum of three times once your flight is ready to take-off. Dusron ki sahayta karne se pehle, apni sahayta karein.  

Indian Airlines was BIG that time, I am speaking of the nineties. Gradually, with the coming of age of low-budget airlines, in the privatised market of elite Jet Airways, IA diminised, like sugar in water. With the failure of a few, two emerged winners, Indigo and Spice Jet. Gradually, I began flying more frequently and from Jet, shifted to the easy on pocket Indigo and Spice Jet. In fact, I quite liked Spice Jet because it offers this 'student discount' which I can avail because I am a Research Scholar. However, the downfall too, began with Spice Jet. With wobbly weather and wobblier nerves, fear instilled in me deep. I rather take the train. This even though I have flown Emirates and Singapore Airlines and Qatar Airways and the premium lot.

Four more Indigo flights later, within a span of two-three months, and a very weak constitution, I am flying tomorrow. With the grand-daddy of all Indian airlines, Air India. I am certainly less fearful, given the flight's duration is a minimum of an hour and half, and I have movies packed for distraction. Or music for memories to be recollected. Or in the next seat, my cousin to delve in artistic insights and celebrity gossip with. The destination weather is going to be a certain plus. I will wear my socks and my various jackets. And I will breathe in a lot of my childhood. At least, I hope to. 

It feels like time-travel. To return to the smell of tea-gardens and cycle to the riverside. To take a good glimpse of my school, and avoid unnecessary 'virtual social friends' from there. Yes, they say I am foolish and snobbish, but I say I am blunt. Actually I am smart in my head, I feel. It is completely alright to ignore selfies to be updated on social media with people you do not wish to. While in school, I had a short-temper they accused. Wrong. I was just blunt. I look forward to see my attitude towards adapting the changes in the towns.   

Cirumstances reveal shades of you, even you are unaware of. I really am not bothering about the flight tomorrow, my take-off and landing songs are ready. May be the Brahmaputra will be flowing. People await to pounce upon their 'old' me. My response however, will be a part of the 'new' me.

When one flies away, it is a difficult comeback to the roots.

Sister, O Sister

The rushed eight am of the day began with Gunjarie and Shuvangie screaming from both ends of their bathroom. At twenty one, one hardly expects such malfunction. Sadly, this indeed was the case with the twins. While both were studying in the same college, their subjects were different, as were their friends and habits. The only one sameness they cherished, rather sadistically, was their crush for Aditya, the football team captain -- same batch, yet another subject. They knew of each others' claim on 'who loves Aditya better', but they also knew that Aditya knew nothing of it, and it would pass with their passing-out.

Six years later, the sisters still screamed at each other. This time, from either end of the kitchen. "There's too much salt!"

"Why don't you cook then?" snapped Gunjarie. 

From sisters they had become sisters-in-law, and funnily into the family of Aditya Mitter. When Aditya had proposed to Shuvangie, she was devastated. In place of happiness, she knew the ugly matter awaiting her at home. But Gunjarie was rather gracious and took it in her stride. While Aadit-Shuvi were going great guns, Gunjarie boxed herself up in envy. It was then that Aditya's elder brother, Anubhav became Gunjarie's solace. Over the years when the sisters would get together at the Mitters' place, Anubhav would be kind to Gunjarie and take a special affection towards her, which finally led to a unanimous decision that the sisters would be married to the brothers. Peace and happiness prevailed.

I wish I could end the story here. In fact, it itches me to go beyond. But the secret won't let me.

Anubhav, returned from Manchester with a degree and his affinity towards men. And this in return he shared only with Aditya. The Mitter's were a renowned family, deep into the printing business and such a thing as living with a man was not only unheard of, but also cause utter defame. I distinctly remember overhearing the conversations, which I shall document hence.

 

Part I: Anubhav-Aditya

 

"I cannot do this, Aadit! Please understand! I love Rajdeep!"

"Relax Dada, we will find out a way. Just marry Gunjarie. That way Shuvi will be relieved of curses. We all know Gunjarie loves me too. She is only putting up a face."

"And how would that help either of us, Aadit, if you may explain?"

"Leave it on me, Dada. We will share the truth with Gunjarie" a plan sat pleasantly on his face.

"Why not Shuvi?" Anubhav looked confused.

"That will complicate matters. I will handle it. For now, just marry Gunjarie. Please."

"And why will she agree?" retorted Anubhav.

"She will." There was an almost evil smile on Aadit's face.

 

Part II: Aditya-Anubhav-Gunjarie

 

"Why isn't Shuvi here?" chirped Gunjarie. Deep within she was happy though that her sister was not around.

Aditya took the occasion to start his speech. "Gunjarie, Dada is gay. You love me. I love Shuvi. I like you too." 

It made no sense to the two listening. He continued, "First, we need a promise that nothing spoken here goes out of this room. Not even to Shuvi." Looking at Gunjarie, he emphasised, "Your sister, my wife. Well, would be."

"So? Why am I to know this all?" snapped Gunjarie.

 

Anubhav was silently smoking. He understood.

 

"Well, Gunjarie, if you marry Dada, our family won't be dis-reputed."

 

Before he could finish, she barked, "Is this a joke? Why will I marry him?"

 

"Gunjarie, Gunjarie please. Sit down." Handing her a bottle, Aditya said, "Here have water." As his hands touched Gunjarie's, he did not fail to note the flush on her cheeks. After a minute, he resumed. "Dada's boyfriend Rajdeep, you know him, has a flat nearby. With marriage as an alibi, Dada can spend as much time as he wants with him. He can also come to our house and pep-talk with you. You have to tolerate it all, without giving out an iota that there is anything lurking beneath."

"Why will I do this, Aadit? What will I get? You think I am a doll?"

Steadily, Aadit made his move very close to her, and touching her hair, softly said, "Oh yes, a very, very hot doll, Gunjarie, that you are!" He could feel her pulse rate jump.

"This is wrong Aadit" came the only comment from Anubhav.

"Dada, I am not done. Hear me out. I am not asking for property share, nor for money or anything. I just don't want the family name to go down with people who do not understand that being gay is okay!"

He was a clever speaker, Aadit. His charm lay in his agile movements. Swiftly, he assisted the ball from Gunjarie to Anubhav. "Look. I am only trying to help. Whether or not you guys accept it, is completely up to you." He went up and lit a cigarette. Silence. 

"Gimme a puff" howled Gunjarie. She still could not situate herself in this plot. "What do I get, Aadit.?"

Part III: Gunjarie-Shuvangie

 

"I have news, Shuvi!"

"Shoot" meticulously doing her cupboard.

"Anubhav proposed last night." Now Shuvangie was all ears and body. Rushing to the bed, she literally yelled, "And?"

Gunjarie smiled a coy smile.

"Bitch! We are gonna live together!" She was genuinely happy.

As they hugged each other, both realised they would have to keep hugging each other here on, forever. 

Eavesdropping not being a good habit, I take you six years later. The sisters still screamed at each other. This time, from either end of the kitchen. "There's too much salt!"

"Why don't you cook then?" snapped Gunjarie. But she wasn't unhappy. Her pregnancy test was positive. If anything, she was sad about the nine months of nights she would be missing.

With Aadit. 

 

Their chemistry was just as fabled as the love between him and Shuvi. It did not take a toll, telling lies about emergency meetings and sudden disappearances, and Shuvi never doubted him. How could she? She had a very exciting conjugal life and Gunjarie was sleeping with Anubhav, rather happily, she knew. Their exchange of sexual exploits made Gunjarie more adventurous and Aadit was getting the best of both the worlds, sleeping with the twins.

A Ghost Story

One of the most dependable conversation topics, over the age, has certainly remained "ghost story". Excitement overriding the fear, groups -- irrespective of age -- gather in a protective huddle and eagerly anticipate possible impacts. Some debate over keeping the lights on, while others want it dimmed. Some want a hushed narrative, while other ask for sound effects in onomatopoeia. I have never been a huge fan of the genre, but owing to my super-active cousin and another very dear friend, who absolutely love anything "horror", I am bound to watch (and mostly confuse The Ring with Orphanage or The Conjuring with The Omen), and take it in a blah-spirit. I cannot much accept the lack of logic. I act "wow, I am so overwhelmed", but they know, I hardly am. They tolerate me, because I tolerate them too. "Company matters, not the cinema genre, bitches!" I smartly add, and take a sip of my drink. Now, the surprise came when my daughter C, asked me last night for a "Gost Stori Momie!" Never had I asked my mom for one! It is another thing though, that she often insisted on telling me some "true" ghost-stories. Challenged by C, I feel heavy. How to construct a ghost? I humbly fall back to the truth of life, that create stories.

Little one, you don't like Chhuti, do you? You like going to school, fighting in the bus, having your friends' tiffin, and coming back to Tucks and your colours. You are alone most of the time, when Ammu-Mashi goes to sleep, deceiving her that you are asleep too. I do not want you to believe in ghosts. So I cannot really tell you a ghost story. But I will tell you what had once happened to me.

Long back, when I was your age, I was being very naughty with Naani, doodling on her legs while she was asleep. She was rather angry when she found out that the back of her blouse was full of zig-zag tangents. She woke up and screamed at me, "If you do this again, a ghost will come and put you in a sack and throw you in the drain. You won't get to have eggs there!" That did the trick. I was so consumed by someone trying to steal me of my day's daily breakfast egg, that I began to behave. Some days later, while I sat with sums, I began wondering why would a ghost steal my portion of egg. It must be loving eggs too! Overjoyed, all my sums went wrong that evening.

That night though, after your Naani switched off the lights in my room, I woke up and walked to the window which opened to an unending green pasture. I was sure that the ghost lived there. So I called out to it (in my mind of course, else Naani would come beating me). No one came up to reply. Disgusted and sleepy, I went back to bed. It was there, waiting, under the mosquito net. Mosquito net is (used to be) a thing, C, like a tent, or a trap, to keep mosquitoes from biting us during sleep. We have moved to Good Knights, who lay the invisible tents around Momie and you, so that mosquitoes are away. C, dear, a ghost was there, right on my pillow! You would imagine my horror, but I have always been smart, so after pretending a poise, I went on to words.

"Do you like eggs?"

"Yes" it said, in a very grumpy voice.

"If I will give you one bite every morning from my breakfast, will you not put me in your sack?"

"OK. But I also want this pillow." It said rather determinedly. 

I had no idea what to do. Your Naani would surely hit me with her khunti if she found an entire pillow missing. I could not possibly risk that. So, I devised a proposal.

"Why don't you come and sleep on this pillow each night, here?"

"OK." It agreed in such a matter-of-fact manner that honestly, I was a little hurt. And since then, C, as you must have noticed, Momie doesn't sleep on a pillow. She lies when she says she has a bad back and sleeps without a pillow. Actually, ghost is my friend, and comes and sleeps next to me every night. But you see, C, it has never hurt us. So, do not be afraid. Sometimes when you see me speak with the wall, thinking there are little lilies, or flying fish around clouds, it is actually Ghost that I am speaking to. Ghost is a good buddy. Would you want to meet it?

Tonight, C? I warn you though, it might ask you to wear your clothes, or share your toys. You have to decide, whether to be friends with it, or be fearful forever. So, once again, tonight, you meet Ghost, C? Hope you are ready.

I hope C does not understand that I plagiarized the concept of a ghost-construction from the only one I know of -- Casper, who is friendly. Don't chain me, please. The other day I chanced upon an extremely, exquisitely, elaborately sweet Bengali child ghost, on TV. Her name is Bhutoo! She is so sweet, that I don't mind her being friends with C. And C being an only child, certainly needs training in sharing. A ghost to begin sharing with cannot do any harm, what say, readers?

Sarthak Razdan's Legacy

If Hindu rites are followed, after a funeral, all that remains are ashes. Sarthak Razdan wanted it a different way though. Long ago, he had formulated for his body, post demise, to be donated to the government hospital. This had flared up his family, who disagreed to agree. His leftover is a tall memorial in the children's park, and taller memories. While riots take numerous lives in Pahalgam, the town still respects the remains of this Kashmiri Pandit, who at the age of twenty-four, built brick by brick, an awareness for anatomy-study. He wished to study the wonders of the human-body.

"The number of corpses who remain as unclaimed numbers, by the unified voice of all of us in this town, are to be respectfully turned over to the Hospital, for study. Who knows, one day, a study of that unclaimed number, may end up saving a life, a name. That name which belongs to your family!" Applauds rang deep into the minds of the gatherings. "Whether the body needs to be buried, or put on a pyre, no longer needs to be fought over! Sisters, brothers, children -- give it up for humanity, give it up for what no one ever did!" For this, he had to, unfortunately, join a political party, and with that, grew his opposition and enemies. Politics ran deep in Pahalgam, like the rest of the country, but we knew, that Sarthak Razdan's voice was pure. 

And just like that, as in our beautiful state, an ugly bullet hit him right where it triggers a closure to living. Sarthak Razdan was delivering one of his speeches, when this happened. What happened next is what he would have wanted, I would have wanted. The crowd went berserk. They ran for their lives. We ran for our lives. Like always, chaos took over. Meaningless slogans overran underlying meanings. The divide divided.

What if the divide united that day? What if we all circled the body of Sarthak, as he wished to be called, and stood by his body, his dream? The shooter would perhaps be at a loss. Such a sight would be un-thought, un-heard of. Even at death, Sarthak would live the truth of his fragrant, humane Pahalgam. That day, I locked myself up in my room, and played catch with a soft ball against the wall, for a period of many hours. Hours that have remained as moments in me, moments that slowly etched Sarthak's bleeding face sharper and brighter. There was no hunger, no pain, just anger. What were they doing with his body? I went out. His body wasn't where the shoot-out took place. The area was cordoned. I could only pray that his body was well-used. Allah would see to it that Sarthak Razdan's body went where he wished, not jannat, only the hospital. To be further cut, bruised, studied. I had tears in my eyes and missed one catch from the wall.

None of this happened of course. We ran like cowards. And Razdan's party people later held a huge funeral for him. We have the memorial in his name, standing tall in the children's park. His remains remain in us. We, can do nothing but rebuild the incident over and over.

Sarthak Razdan would have had it the other way. I would too. 

-- Omaar Habib,

Class XI, Govt Boys' School,

Pahalgam.

THE PAHALGAM PAIGHAM published this entry which won the FIRST PRIZE in the Sarthak Razdan Memorial Essay Competition.

Right Race

The race begins the moment a being begins to breathe. The race to anything, everything, sometimes something and finally, towards nothing. Right and wrong are very inappropriate, in my opinion, as a prefix to race, that is. A race is after all a choice, one chooses to participate in. This is the story of Yashodhara Sen, whose tryst with destiny began, like others, in a race. Tracing her life to the moment when she was conceived, to when she was delivered, nothing quite went the natural way. She had a retired growth. Survival for her meant medicines, and artificial milk. But there was a certain twinkle in her soul which would not allow the spirit to dampen.

Like little glow-worms in deep forests, she would make her presence feel, with that tendency of losing herself among the many, yet standing apart. She ran the race to topping the class, and gave it up, content with being more in love with Sidney Sheldon than Charles Dickens. She cared more for Pepsi advertisements during cricket ODIs. Whichever race she ran in , she featured in the 'mentions', if not the gold-silver-bronze. There was a charisma even in her unwillingly participating, or willingly not. You could go ahead and call her 'destiny's child' if that did not mean having to claim medals and degrees. There was something about her, how do we define it? Shine? No. Stardust, perhaps.

Yashodhara was in a race even with Avantika, with a common love interest -- Purab. Her means of winning, however, was letting go. When understanding dawned on her about either competition, or a lack of integrity, she quietly kept quiet. When she was growing up, to the many, "what do you want to be?", she would confidently reply, "actress". People would be taken aback by the authority in her voice. 

Some fool would dare to continue, "But you have such a nice voice. Sing a song!"

"No." Yashodhara was determined. "I am not a singress."

Adults laughed. "Such a sweet child. 'Singress', hahahahaha!"

Right now, at age thirty two, she laughs at the world. In the race of life where rights were mostly imposed on her, she turned out to be an outstanding author. Not yet best-selling, but much well-loved. So much so that nobody dared a laugh at the now copyright, 'Singress.'

She was finally in the right race. She is, after all, a 'Write-ress.' 

Excerpts from Yashodhara Sen's Journals, March, 1996. This piece won her the 'Budding Author of the City'. No wonder, at her death today, the news headlines are running the word 'writeress' followed by a detailed assumptive analysis of what could have provoked her suicide. Her latest book entered the nominations for several awards. 

As a narrator, I can only keep one opening for you. What was Yashodhara's attitude to competition? Was she in the right race as a 'writeress'? Think. Think deep. Aren't you Yashodhara Sen too? Think.

Letter to Chhuti XXII

Sweetheart,

Here you are, and how! We are all by ourselves, and for the first time perhaps, it feels an overdose. I wish I could drive around at least. Or, have a chilled beer these afternoons, captured instead by the essence of neem leaves. The idiot box has become more idiot than ever, and thank god for sports that I can still keep it on. Main Prem Ki Deewani Hoon, Yaadein, Mujhse Dosti Karoge -- they are just episodes of extravagant overacting. Even listening to them leave me open-mouthed. I stop writing! I am drinking tender coconut water instead, and without gin in it. And gulping it all down.

Then there are phone-pings, and phone-calls, the unwanted and unnecessary ones I mean. And no whiskey. I talk to the wall. Lovely lilies linger there. White, pristine ones. I walk around them, touching them, feeling them. Awake, I find myself alive, sweating, tired. Chhuti, what is happening? Time has been slotted into medicine names. Lotion has taken over fragrance. It is disturbing, this peace. A peace which does not allow rest. Yes, restless peace. Could give it a piece of my mind, you know!

But why am I complaining? Accept this letter as my loud-thinking. There could be so much that could be done were this a healthy holiday. Believe me, it aches. And it doesn't. I mean, I always wanted this. This off-period forever. And though I am battling an intense weakness, I am writing! I am supporting South Africa, and Pakistan. Both will choke, I know. May be I will too, even with all the creativity I have. 

In the entire day, the best thing I did was encircle the feet blisters in a tiara of neem. In the end, it is as useless as moving another level ahead in Candy Crush, but then, what is actually useful? I have always preferred the beautiful over the useful. The hint over the answer. But, boredom is a thing I could never battle. And as history repeats, it loves me too much. Even with you around, I am bored. Wait. Tomorrow I shall take you to a walk to the lily-land. And we can have a game of 'whose imagination runs wilder'. 

Winning is an attitude, Chhuti.

See -- I write, I win.

K.

Burden of Boredom

DECODE THE DOODLE

A Rosy Story

When my mother 'gave me off' (that is exactly how the Bengali transliteration would be), for marriage, she fainted. Melodrama runs in our family, madness too. We had a mighty laugh later, regarding her 'receiving of the groom and fainting episode'. Recently, quarantined with chicken pox, I have had to leave C with her Naani, 'give away'. No, hang on. I wasn't exactly melodramatic. I was methodical -- listing all her quirkiness and how to deal with them. An example: "I wan Fench Fai, Naani!", should be dealt with two french fries and a slice of apple. Before leaving though, she put Rosie, her doll, inherited from her Naani, in my room, and added, "Wen I come I wan Rosy stori!" Trying to distract myself from the attack of itches, here, I try:

Rosy had a lousy childhood. She sat neglected, amidst many more Rosy-Posy-Nosy, in the open, of a shopping area, awaiting some attention to come her way, someday. "I wish some little princess takes me home!" she used to think. And you won't believe what happened that autumn evening! No. No, no, no. No princess came. In fact she was being cuddled by a rather old woman, and to Rosy's utter surprise, this fat woman with salt and pepper hair selected her to go home with. Rosy did not know to be happy or not. She was chosen, and by night, she had a name. Rosie.

It wasn't a palace by any standard, the old woman's house, but Rosie felt a strange richness building within her. The old woman's daughter, and her daughter too, loved Rosie. They spoke with her, changed her clothes seasonally, and sometimes, good friends even put her to sleep, next to Blue Doggy, and Dolly the Dolphin. She found friends. Living up to her name, life is indeed rosy for Rosie.

Until one day, the old woman's daughter's daughter dabbed poor Rosie's golden hair in her Mom's ink bottle! Poor Rosie had to undergo a careful detergent shampoo to get rid off the ink. The old woman's daughter's daughter felt bad, and later that night gave Rosie a hug! You wouldn't believe what happened then! Rosie hugged her right back! Nobody would want to believe it of course, but well, "There are always flowers for those who want to see them", said the great artist Henri Matisse (pronounced, Onri Matissuh). Rosie lives a rosy life with flowers she sees, and makes you see -- Roses, orchids, lilies, you name it! Jiraaf too!

I cannot wait for C to return and this yucketty, pedestrian-kind of disease, chicken-pox to leave! To think of it, it has been a Continuous series of Unfortunate Events: a miserable Cut, a Cloudy flight, a fall off a hanging Chair, an almost fatal Car accident, unbelievable professional Collision, mother's Cataract surgery, and finally, Chicken-pox. No, I am Certainly not playing alliteration-alliteration. In fact the word reminds me of Crocodiles (alligators!), and sometimes of C's Crocodile-tears, "Momie, keep Rosy. But don't lub her as much as me. And we have Cackle when I home!"

Yes, she got the 'hingshuti' part from me. Take note, it is something sweeter, and subtler than jealousy. The picture below was Clicked by C, some months back, when she was feeling hingshuti at having found Rosie plumply placed on my Chair. How can I Convince C if the world revolves around the sun, mine spells Csun.

"Not Write Now!" screamed C.

Handcrafted

a1b2c3d4e5f6. zebrahaspurpledots. antigoneisgone. winmer_12_tersum. isleepwithclooney_how54. furfat#. chanmondler98. @nadal@clay@federer@everywhere. pass_word_14. exchangentleman. 

Everything failed. All possible combinations to create a password designed well enough to crack Jennifer's mail id bounced. It was time Danyal got evidence about the raving Jennifer-Aurang affair. It was the alimony that caused him the most anxiety. He was sure of Jennifer's family going after the two apartments, even if Jennifer herself was not, and the Shergill painting. Danyal sat in office, pulling his hair trying to think of all possibilities. Last night, he had eyed over the first bit of mail, that Jennifer sat reading, next to him. They were still sleeping together, to maintain the propriety of a loving conjugal couple. It read:

Beloved Jennifer,

Amsterdam is a beautiful place! The tulips would look better with you around. I have kept the visit to the Van Gogh Museum on hold until we can do it together, after a wine laden salad lunch on a chilly afternoon. I hope the divorce discussions are underway. It is unbearable, this distance

Jennifer caught Danyal preoccupied with the pretense of not reading her mail. She went outside to the adjacent balcony and sat on the seetee to read the rest of the mail. No Danyal, you cannot have this pleasure. Or, should you? She decided to tantalize him a wee bit further and returned to her side of the bed, reading, in continuum:

It is unbearable, this distance. We already know you are capable to earn a more than decent living here, and I have a fair share of bank balance and inheritance. Don't worry sweetheart. Don't claim anything from poor Danyal, just get done with the legalities by August when I return. To you. I cannot wait to take you in my arms, kiss you like the rain, all over, and wake up with you. Kill Danyal actually, that would be more pleasant for him. I can feel his pain. Kill everyone and everything to do with the Danyal Engineer and the rest of his Engineerwallah clan. Don't wear my Mondegari too, after your name. Jennifer Coomar always best suited you. Oh, I love you JC. Wear me instead.

Yours,

Aurang.

The mail had a sender's address attached:

Aurang Mondegari,

Co-Founder, www.dealdart.com 

All Danyal could think of was how to get his hand on this mail. He could save his family from a fortune going to Jennifer, if only he could show this mail to the court that 'instigated her to kill anything that came in the way of their affair'. I will not part with the Shergill. I need to crack her password. He tried some more:

birkin2bags. jengineercoomar. ihatedanyal. iloveaurang. calcuttacoomar. colaba14coomar. j14d31.

Damn you, Jennie! What could you have possibly thought of?

In her room, Jennifer entered her password to re-read Aurang's mail: youshouldnotbedoingthis#danyal

Handcuffed!

Quentin Tarantino -- such a lovely, brilliant, outstanding director. Quarantined -- how similar sounding, and ruthlessly different. Difficult -- the dichotomies of life. Difficult because with all the time in the world, I am now trapped. Diagnosed with a certain disease, the doctor seemed blissful at having diagnosed it. I have a travel coming up in one week flat. I have scripts waiting to be attended to, with complete attention, as much as two movies in my flash-drive. I have a lot of have's, not even paying the slightest respect to the thesis. But.

Being handcuffed is not exactly as unhappy as I had deemed it to be. It is a happy handcuffed. I am already travelling. Spiralling downwards, flying wingwards, dreaming softly, moving barely -- and yet, in all of literature, the one slot of sentence (excuse my saying that to an epic), which finds the most special place in my heart (tragicomedically), be: “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven” taken of course from John Milton's Paradise Lost. How terribly, terribly true. 

I have undertaken on one 'have' and have beside me a Plath text, a testimonial of an underlying ambition awaiting action. This room suddenly seems changed. The door is willingly being locked out from outside. And I am loving it. Where do you think I am? Talking to the walls? No. I mean, no, not only that.

I am in Bologna, and in Paris, in Warsaw and in New York. I am signing autographs in a figure which is, well, hot. Even in handcuffs, I am hot! And how can you or anyone stop me from being so? There are stories I am willing to share by the hour, of such incidents where trees are blue against a red sky and a violet bird sits, singing a lullaby.

No, I am certainly not quarantined. I am, on the con, in a Quentin Tarantino movie. 

Killing the bills. With pills :D