The Woman

She was tired at three in the morning.
Justifying her duties, her earning too.
You see, she got her salary and her bonus
For being good and paying her dues.
You are curious, yes I was too
Till I saw her  servitude.
She served her man and his family
With  completely positive attitude.

She was a wife, had borne him children,
The fourth one had died at childbirth.
She couldn't lament as she was told
 It was will of God ,a short life on earth.
She had served her in-laws, patiently
With tender love and care.
They were old and quite demanding,
She dared where others didn't do their share.

Her children were all well fed
and were achievers of sorts.
She was a proud mother and
An example for all.
She supported her husband all her life
Reveling in all his glories.
She forgot her own dreams somewhat
And took care of all his worries.

He too cared immensely for her
And rewarded her handsomely
With gold and gifts and kind words
Also money for  her needs,
His needs and wants fulfilled her
And passion filled nights ritually.
He came and went as he wanted
And took care of her, cordially.
She waited for him with bated breath
For the goodies he would offer
He was kind, don't get me wrong
And never let her suffer.

Her rewards were with all bonus points
As she performed quite well
And never shouted, argued sometimes
But all in quite good faith.
The only thing that bothered her
Were the terms and conditions
You see, her payments were delayed
If the boss wasn't happy with her

The gifts and love all soured
Leaving her nights empty.
She had to be good and obedient
To get her dues aplenty.
Or she would starve night after night
Confused and undecided.
Suppress her wants and random thoughts
As she wasn't to be excited.

Her wants and needs,you see
Her licence and registered number
All lay with authority,
And they never troubled her.
So her days were spent in suspense
If her salary would be full,
Her bonus points and advance
Would make her life wonderful.

Only, she felt chained sometimes
With performance and duties
Wished she could fly really high
On her dreams and fantasies.
If she could also laugh and cheer
As and when she wanted
Spend a life of wishes and dreams
With a freedom it warranted .

(Dedicated to all the dutiful and dedicated women of Indian Subcontinent)

IT HAPPENED THIS WAY....

IT HAPPENED THIS WAY..

He was always the restless one in the class. He never really paid any attention to me, trying to teach him Creative Writing. It was a batch of about 16 people and this boy was most fidgety and was always staring out of the window or staring and yes I mean staring at me with an engrossed look, wriggling in his seat and playing with whatever was available near his hand.

I would look at him and then try to include the whole batch in my sweeping glance and start speaking. Of course I would be nervous and a bit uneasy. But then I decided to continue with my instructions and concentrate on the rest of the class.

There were ten girls and six boys whose parents had entrusted me with their wards to groom their literary senses in 12 sessions of ‘6 successful ways to Write Creatively’ workshop. Parents wanted to keep them engaged and I wanted to open up a new world of creative ideas to them. Our school thought that as an English teacher and with couple of journals tucked into my belt, I was their best shot at facilitating the summer workshop. 

Needless to say the money was good and our principal Mrs. Sethi had immense faith in me.

‘Ma’am, do we really have to draw a real tree or it can be anything’, Alok was looking at me in askance.

‘Not really a tree Alok, a tree which you can make to look like, say...a tiger’ I gave a beaming smile. Alok had a baffled look on his face. “Think it is a tree but draw it like whatever you want.” That managed to satisfy him, “Oh! Ok ma’am”.  I picked up the worksheets and turned towards the window. There, now he was at my back and I could ignore him successfully.

However, throughout the three hours session I could feel his eyes on me. Tarun. Yes, that was his name. Fair, chiselled features, tall (being a 5ft-err myself, I always liked look up to people) but Tarun was an exception with his black staring eyes and  beady looks, a lanky boy of 17. Everyone in the group was in their XIIth standard, and that included him.

At the end of the session, he would just move quietly out of the room, without saying even a courteous ‘Bye ma’am’ like others did. Every Tuesdays and Thursdays this ordeal continued. I would feel his eyes following me to every corner of the room, but I seldom maintained any eye contact with him. Only fleeting glances and to check  if he was really writing anything. This was the only way to tackle this intrusion. I was quite happy with my problem solving expertise!

What irked me most was the manner in which he sat in the class. Legs outstretched and an arrogant look on his face. He would not talk to anyone and neither would he acknowledge any one greeting him. How arrogant! Obviously his parents were very rich and had pampered him to distractions and hence no courtesy or social skills!

Truth was, his glances made feel gauche like a teenager. I was never in the habit of grooming myself. A nice haircut, a nice and comfortable non-critical pair of jeans and loose shirts and my fancy footwear with sunflowers on them was all the makeup I ever needed. But I had ‘all that I would need for makeup if I was going to a party’, in my tote bag. I had even put in couple of accessories to be on the safe side and of course wanted to fit in couple of shoes but when the right loop of the shoulder strap started giving away, I stopped myself. 

The word ‘hair’ had always spelt trouble for me. First the spelling (hare,here,hiar ..and I had been punished for every one of them till class 2) and the uncontrollable unruly thatch that I have on my head was independent enough to spell a lifetime of trouble. I actually left it to take it's own decision and that was as far as I would go to ‘groom’ them.

But now I really wished, I could make a bun and be like other women of my age and look a tad more beautiful than me. His stare! Uff, it was killing me. It made me feel very self conscious. Something about it gave me an unexplained feeling and I would turn and look at him, time and time again. I turned around in a mode of combat and looked directly at the group, “Today we will borrow ideas from each other and develop them. Please write your ideas in a chit of paper and give it to the one sitting next to you”. I was a genius! This would surely make them talk to each other and brainstorm some new ideas. 

However, I crash landed back to the room with a piercing shout coming from some alien source “Ma’.....am, Tarun pushed me” it was Alia Nazeer. I looked with horror as I found Alia on the floor and Tarun looking at Alia with a murderous look in his eyes.

“Stop it both of you! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself behaving in such manner? Tarun , Alia come here at once” I was shaking with a mixed emotion. Fear anger and something I cannot describe now all rolled into one big ball of reaction. And that stare.

“I said COME HERE” I just hollered at them.

Both stood up and came towards me. I looked at them and quietly said “What’s the matter with you both? Why are you behaving like toddlers?”

“But Ma’am, I am not at fault,it was Tarun who hit me first” Alia let out a squeaky wail. I looked at Tarun hoping to see a brewing protest, but he just looked down and refused to say a word. I was really angry now. How dare he not defend himself! Standing there as if he didn't care! “Speak up Tarun, why did you push her?”

“I didn't. She had snatched my pen.” As if that explained everything! He still would not look up.

“What do you mean? How dare you push her! Don’t you have any manners? What have your parents taught you! Pushing a lady!” I was fuming and onto my ‘sermon others’ mode. “Your parents must think you are smart, but believe me you have rotten attitude. PUSHING A LADY! My God if I want, I can get you arrested. What arrogance! I say look up!”

Tarun refused to even budge an eyelid. The boy, who had stared at me for full three hours during the workshop, would not even look at me!

“I will have to report it to your parents!”

“No, don’t!” He said.

“What don’t? I have to!”

“No they are not there.”

“So what? Who is in charge of you now?

“No one, I am staying with my uncle.”

“So I will meet him, give me his no.”

“No, please don’t.”

I was now quite pleased with my assertive self. “Nonsense, Give me his number.”

He now looked up and gave me a quiet look. He took out his mobile without moving his glance from me. Something in his glance disturbed me, but I was on a roll. I made the call and reported the whole incident to Tarun’s uncle with a word or two about how values in children should be instilled from home etc.

I was still quite disturbed at the manner Tarun had behaved. It was as if he wanted me to make the call. Anyway I was quite satisfied with the steps I had taken and so was Alia. We all went home, quite happy with the outcome of the day.

For next two sessions Tarun didn’t come to the class. I was a bit uneasy but chalked it up to his arrogance and the way I had ticked him off. But something in his glance had a compelling message. I was quite upset by the end of the day. I had a record of the students’ phone nos. and decided to give a call to his uncle. The man sounded quite understanding and promised me that he would make sure that Tarun would be there the next day.

I suddenly remembered that Akash lived near Tarun’s home. On my way home, I stopped at Akash’s place. He was quite surprised to see me. I called him out and asked him, if he knew anything about Tarun and his absence from the class.

“Ma’am I really don’t know."

"Did you meet him?" 

"Ma'am he has been staying with his Uncle, since his parents' death 2 years ago. That is all I know.”

“His parents are dead! But ..” I could barely speak.

“Yes ma’am. They had died in a car accident about two years ago. Tarun used to be a very jolly fellow. He would often play with us in the evening, but after his parents’ death he stopped talking to anybody in the locality. This house is his and his Uncle and his family came over to take care of him. I don’t know anything more than that.”

I was now feeling quite hollow now. I was stunned. I hurriedly thanked Akash and came out of his house. My natural impulsive unruly sense urged me to go forward and visit him. But something stopped me. May be the memory of those stares were they trying to say something to me? I decided to go home. Needless to say I could not sleep that night. Tossing and turning I remembered his look when I was lashing him with my emotive speech. His eyes! Oh God I had to stop this.

Next day, I left a bit early and stopped at Tarun’s home. I was now quite sure that I wanted to get to the bottom of this matter. It was a two storied house with a beautiful garden in the front. As I knocked on the door, I found my hands were trembling. The door opened “Ji Boliye?” I stared at the old man who had opened the door.

“Tarun se milna hai” I croaked.

“Ji, aap kaun?”

“Mein uski Teacher hoon”.

“Ji Baba to ghar pe nahi hain.”

“Aaur koi hain ghar pe?”

“Saablog Dilli gaye hain”.

“Thik hain, Tarun ko boliyega ki main ayee thi”. I turned to leave and walked my cycle to the gate. But something made me turn. I could feel that glance again. I looked up and saw a shadowy form at the window. I tried to make out but I already knew who it was. 

I parked the cycle at the fence and rushed back to the house, impatiently pounding on the door. The door opened and I just pushed the old man aside and tried to locate the stairs. “Aap ander nahi ja saktey” ,the man shouted. I just glanced at him and asked “Sidhi kahan hai?” and then noted the old iron staircase by the French window. Taking two steps at a time I reached the second floor and tried to guess which door would lead to Tarun’s room. I barged in....

“What the hell!” I could barely speak. He was staring at me with muted eyes. I moved towards him and touched his shoulder. He flinched and moved away.

“Who did this?”

“No one”

“WHO DID THIS?”

“It’s none of your business”.

“Good, when did it happen?” Had he not been so badly injured, I could have hit him myself for the silence.

“Tarun, either you speak to me or I call the police.”

“I love you." Holy God! He was trying to act cheesy.

“That’s good, now shall we try again?”

“When and how did this happen”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Bull, how and when?” His cheek was swollen and so were his eyes. One side of the neck was blue and black. His right hand had numerous scratch marks and was swollen below the wrist. It was not a fall, for sure.

There was a long pause. I stood up went towards the door.

“The day you complained” I whirled around, my heart pounding and hands went clammy.

“And?” I whispered.

“This is ok. I can live with this” He was staring at the carpet.

“Of course you can.”

I looked at him, “How often does this happen?”

He looked up then. His eyes had lost its glare and had a shine to it. He again looked down.

As I slowly mounted down the stairs, I saw the old man standing at the base and wiping his eyes.

“Baba ko bacha lijiye, woh mar jayega.” I looked at him and just nodded unmindful of the words as he kept on with a stream of expressions, now crying profusely. As I walked towards the door, numerous thoughts were racing through my mind.

I took out my cell and dialed  Mrs.Sethi’s number and then made the second call to my brother at the police station.

*****************

Today,Tarun is working in an IT farm in Pune. He is scheduled to leave for Germany this week. I always have a smile on my face as I keep down the phone after talking to him. He still maintains that he loves me. So do Geeta and Ruman,his wife and their six year old son.  

Of Park Street and late nights

Late nights? Not really 11:30 at night will not really be considered ‘late’ by many, but well my story has always been quite different from what always is to ‘many’. 

To come back to ‘late night at Park Street’...I might have looked ‘about to topple over’ the edge for some time, when one of my flamboyant and well known colleagues decided to ruffle my feathers up a bit.

‘Mohua, let’s hit Park Street- Someplace Else, good music good fun’ that was what she said, and yes, it was a ‘she’ and that was a mild crisis. However, I decided that enough was enough and I should let my hair (or whatever is left of it) down and paint the town red (or green, one is rather confused nowadays as to which colour should be picked from our city’s different colour codes).

So there I was, in Kolkata at Park Street at Someplace Else. Yes, you have the right picture. Loud music, low light, few scattered heads in the shadow , 2 LED screens with mismatched views (this is an irritating speciality which comes with CCD type set up) and the glittering bar, with a small side dais for performers to churn out soulful music as the evening gets drunk with an intoxicated  will to ‘enjoy life’.

The place has ambience, yes, it decidedly has an ambience. So in keeping with the image of what you should be when you visit a place with ‘ambience’ , I whisked out my Aparna Sen glasses( unless she has decided to change her ‘I am impressive’ style) and pretended to be someone of importance as everyone around tried to do just the same.

My distinguished colleague looked just as important and impressive, and that set the theme of the evening errr......night, ‘to be distinguished and impressive’. Now it is quite a different story when one is trying ‘to be and not to be’ different and distinguished when almost 80% of the gatherers are trying to be just that and wearing different and almost same versions of the colour black with black heads (Indians),black eyes, black glasses, black stockings/socks, and albeit black shoes. I realised that we indeed had really set a very tough task for ourselves.

I just loved the music as I recognised almost all the pieces that they played. You see, that’s one of my worst fears- not being able to recognise the music at a party....psssst( I do lie at times and pretend that I am a regular ‘Linkin Park, Justin Bieber and Spice Girl’ stuff, and try to look suitably interested when my teenage children are talking to the ‘Yo, Mummy’ image of mine), and here it was, right in midst of Park Street, they played Glen Campbell, Pete Sieger, Eric Clapton and I knew those lyrics) It is an intoxicating feeling without  any true source, when you can sing as you please without being corrected about the lyrics or the notes (who would bother, above all that din!). But I sung my heart out , swayed with the beat as there never is much space to do more, and just let myself go with the flow, incognito.

Well that was just going great and I did great until  my well known colleague was identified by couple of other well known people around, there was nothing really  I could do except smile an enigmatic smile and tried to look suitably impressed by their round of chit chats or bang bangs (over the din dins J). I happened to notice few activities around me and almost banged against a ‘phorener’ standing still as a wall with a tablet written ‘Passion Lemon Drink’. I asked for her forgiveness , as she was really doing her job well standing on  6.5inch stilettos, and in pins and toes about the ‘Passion’   bit.

And then there was this aged man who was quite ‘high’ & mistook me for his ‘girl’ couple of times, and tried to be familiar but again one glance at my ‘holier than thou’ looks and he did an 80 degree turn and took after someone else. Well, that is me, even when I chill out people call me ‘Ma’am’.

Well the night wore on with lots of photographs of my colleague and her old flames and new patients, a well known doc with his latest IPhone and new car (this particular doc I know well is also a ‘Motivational Speaker’, who charges quite high for his ‘motivational Public Performance’). To give him some credit, he did look well motivated and quite willing to motivate others with this other way of life. In front of me, there was one very tall guy blocking my view of Nondon Bagchi performing on dais, three well rounded ladies giggling on top of three not so well rounded lads, a mixture of young and old, fearful and bold, kind souls and all with an unified feeling of ‘let it flow’. Mast !

I did enjoy my time thoroughly, and just flew with the rhythm, with lot of calls and FB updates. My distinguished companies were clicking photos and telling to no one in particular that those pics should never go to FB, how nobody should know, as they were so well known and how people would talk if they knew how ‘well known’ people chill and no journalist should get a whiff of how well they looked as well known people and on and on and on...........

As I was coming out of the hotel, I noticed the completely silent Park Street and my favourite places with their shutters down. The city had always carried an aura with its unique combination of tradition and modernity and wrapped in lamp lights and starlight, it just reminded me of a very old song:

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free 
They did not listen, They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

As my car crawled into the night, I just relaxed and stared at the road ahead. A bustling city by day ,put to slumber, a few cars here and there, the street dwellers rolled up in bed covers rested in front of the closed shutters, a few dogs keeping a strict vigil over the city streets, and the hoardings with bright lights superimposed over the narrow shops,I whizzed past the roll shops, CCDs, bedding stores,restaurants, malls, cafes,offices,showrooms, houses,flats... and clean and silent street, I just fell in love..........

YATRA: Mumbai Mirror: Part 1

YATRA:

Mumbai Mirror: Part 1

The first thing that hits you about the city is the smell, a damp smell of garbage dump. For a second you start thinking that it is a city full of only garbage and that awful smell. Your sense of smell leads you to notice only shanties and garbage pile ups by the street. Then as you enter the city limits,the rotten smell recedes and you slowly reconcile yourself to the fact that nobody would notice you in the milling crowd, even if you walk stark naked on the street, except for maybe some political moral police with loud protest against your ‘Haute Couture’ sense of dressing. Then you realise it is a city where- ‘sab chalta hai’ and offers a complete sense of independence and that feeling of ‘The invisible man’ being rewritten all over again by Mr.Wells.

People:

Business, business, busyness! That is what you see all over. People walking, running, talking, romancing (oh, yes Mumbaikars are quite exponents as far as public display of hand holding, necking type 'PD' of romance is concerned. Maybe the absence of space in houses and of course bedrooms, push them to streets, parks and malls). Yes, it is a very loving city and it loves being busy. Nobody has time so they understand perfectly about ‘do call and visit’ relatives, appointments and value of reaching on time.

The wonders are the traders. I mean a simple visit to a vegetable market with my ‘Mumbai savy’ spouse, introduced me to the fastest swiftest and loudest breed of humanoids called ‘Bhajiwalah’. They have this astounding capacity of selling ten different varieties of vegetables to ten different customers and bargaining, weighing, packaging in the flimsy looking plastic bags and handing you back the exact amount of changes...and guess what? All within a span of 2 mins 30 secs (I had the audacity to consult a stopwatch). See that is what a busy city is all about. Time is money-the faster you make it the better.

Mumbaikars do not shout inside their houses and flats. The quiet neighbourhood drove me to think that Mumbaikars do not have undisciplined adolescents who refuse to obey the righteous parents and in turn get preached (as in- using the same decibel level in talking to a large mass!), they do not have bothersome neighbours or mother in laws and thus a reign of peace resides all around. But the fact is they have all the above but what they respect in others is the personal space and to let it be. They pretty much keep their opinion restricted only to those who would want to hear.

Mumbaikar teenagers and adolescents- sizes vary from ‘xs’ to ‘xxl’ and to the utmost delight of this author, huge range of designer clothes for the size ‘xl’ ! Svelte fashionable teenagers and designer model youths are splattered all over the city, yet a big mass of middle-aged stylish ladies with matched sense of style make you feel so much at home. Yes it is a city which embraces all in a most disenchanted yet a loose hug.

People understand the value of money, so even in biggest arcades you will find stores with vast range of goods catering to every income group. The business and service community   are very quality conscious and strive to serve better without being irritated. Thus you have 4^th hand colour TV sets being sold for a paltry amount and with ‘after sale service’ (my better half possesses one...although now, after a tortured life, it has breathed its last, and left me wondering, if now it will be treated with ‘Warranty period service after death’! ) 

And it is a place with people and people everywhere, milling in and out of the buildings, rail stations, malls, hotels, restaurants, houses, subways,footbridges, shops,crossing roads, on treetops and drains! (that was a bit far fetched). But yes they are everywhere , a city full of people to keep you company.

( This post will be followed by Part 2 &3)

Three Headlines and a story

‘One in three Indians overweight: Improper Eating Habits and Lack of Exercise Are Playing Havoc with well being across the globe.” –TOI Kolkata. Nov- 2012-11-02

The headline shouted at all its available audience early in the morning. Imagine an 
over-weighed country, fighting obesity along with unemployment, attrition, disastrous medical service, corruption, poverty, Pakistan, Barrack Obama,TRP rating (the last one was for only all the ‘you know who’s) and a never ending list.

 Let’s face it, we have been eating our hearts out, like gluttons, at every nook and corner, at home and outside, on streets, in trains, planes and again even in ‘you know where’. We are indeed a sorry lot, on top of all the problems that our dear ‘Gavarment’ is facing right now, now this. Imagine, this actually can be labelled as the mother of all the problems. You see it works like this:

WE EAT--WE SPEND---WE BECOME POOR & DISEASED---PER CAPITA INCOME DIPS= THE NATION SUFFERS

(despite my several laborious trial I could not put the graph in the blog!)

Hence forth it is proved that ‘obesity’ is the brewing ground of a burning economic ‘junk’ of a cauldron, called India. Now as we are a nation inundated with mother fixation, a problem as big as this, had to be left to the mothers, to be sorted and treated.( Incidentally West Bengal is blessed with two relations of such a stature, the king maker in Delhi(foster mother) and of course our very own ‘Ma,mati, manush’ Ma.) So very shortly there was a solution at hand. How on the earth we did not think about it before only, escapes the most fertile stretch of my imagination, (after all we are the resident of the enlightened land-with Presidency being revamped by best of brains from all over the world)

STOP EATING MORE: Yes you heard me right.

“Bhabchi Ekbela Khabo” Bolechey Grihinira. Ei Shomoy,2^nd Nov.2012.

(Translate: “Will have to eat once a day”, say the housewives)  

Good thinking. Think, one sentence and the perfect solution to the entire economic problem that our ‘Gavarment’ had, was at hand. It would also lend an unconditional support to the ‘Ones, who should not be named’ at the Center
 (after all, whatever problems we might have with the ruling party, yet we have immense respect for Pranab da).  

So there, with cooking gas being priced at its exorbitant best at Rs.425/cylinder and that too only six cylinders a year, from the 7^th cylinder it is to cost Rs.925/ only,(and we unfortunately have 12 months a year), the  motherly affection was all but oozing out of our ears, nose and ‘you know where’s . But to give ‘them’ the due credits, it is indeed a privilege for us Indians to have such affectionate national parentage. ‘They’ did make an attempt to curb obesity – the greatest menace of all, the silent killer, the economic ‘Sandy’. Ahem!

But no, the Great National Debt Relief was again stalled. Like the three witches in Macbeth, all the ‘hurly burly’ before the ‘Elections’ created by the populace, got ‘them’ scurrying for cover and think and rethink about the serious repercussion of ‘their’ impending action might cause.

 Foster mother did not at first react as the ‘burning issue’ would have proved beneficial for distracting the ‘Mango People of Banana Republic’ from the infamous ‘Rabert’(who anyways have been immersed in ‘Liquid Axygen’ regarding some murky deal) and the populace would have anyways accepted their lot in life, as in India ‘Sab Chalta Hai’. But the elders and the ‘think tank’ took it as an indicator to the TRP ratings of the 
‘Gaverment’, working and the non working ones ,as media had successfully drawn the mass attention towards this ‘Gaseous’ issue and it was reeking of foul smell.

So appears the third headline today (of course in smaller print, as we do not forget easily): ‘Cooking Gas price hike rolled back’. Apparently the price rise was right at the heart of the fiscal reform policy of the ‘Gavment’ but it was proving to be a huge deterrent factor in winning the hearts of the electorate. So the hike had to be deferred, mind you deferred and not cancelled, till after the elections.

 At last, for the time being we can  revert to our original plan to at least eat three square meals a day, however obese that might make us and cause a worldwide disaster, by sinking the land mass and raising the sea level or incur more national debt, till the end of Dec 2012(Mayan Calendar not withstanding).    

You see, given a choice between Fiscal Deficit/Commitment to Economic Reform and Himachal Pradesh /Gujrat Polls, of course the polls won hands down.

After all the booty is always larger, better and bigger with empowerment. Mango people can only hang on and wait to rot.

A Birth,a Storm, a Stormy Life.

These two beautiful pieces of prose were composed by my two friends who at present are honing their creative talents while home bound during the threat of Sandy. I found an odd connection in the following three posts:

On my Son’s Birthday

 It has been a sweet and wonderful journey with you starting from the day I held you in my arms for the first time. You were born on a bright Thursday morning right after a snow storm the day before. The lovely black curly hair on your cherubic small frame of 5lb and 4ozs and your twinkling eyes brought a sense of gratification of having par taken in your creation that word cannot describe enough. Looking at you, my dreams of future were renewed with a fresh zeal. Everything or anything is possible - that is how I felt with you in my arms.

Oh, the path traversed has been a remarkable one - learning new things from you every day, ever since with renewed vigor. You brought back my cherished childhood again - through you I have re-lived another childhood of innocence, wild bewilderment, and an unabashed curiosity to know everything. Your questioning mind and analytical inquisition has shown me the beauty in asking questions anew.

My discovery of "Winnie the Pooh" through sharing bed-time stories with you brought me the simple pleasures of reading beautiful literature. I have since cherished the books by A. A. Milne and hope to keep them to eternity. The discovery of poetry by Dr. Suess where we shared many a laughter while deciphering the inner meaning behind those poems. Your philosophizing during your potty breaks, at times quite irritating, and yet another lovely encounter with your developing and a very curious mind. So many times I had wished that I had paid more attention while learning to answer the myriad of questions that you often posed and not provided you with a dumb answer instead.

As you approach your 16th birthday, I realize that soon you would be entering the world of the "grown-ups", figuring out your destiny amidst various challenges and making your own mistakes. I wish that you find your true-calling and that make your decisions with much after-thought and analysis as you have done in the past.  I wish that you expect the best in you and not expect anything from others. I wish you never find excuses to not do something which you started with strong convictions, to weaken the cause. I wish you always have pride in your abilities and never doubt your conviction. I wish you develop strong individuality and remain true to yourself. I wish you never look for gratification for your actions from others. I finally wish that you find true joy in everything you chose to do and never compromise or put others before your own conviction.

By Bipasa  Biswas.

A Storm Unlike:

Sandy has actually been a real positive thing for me. I am in a place in my life where I want to celebrate - to dance with - what is unwanted, uninvited, marginalized, feared. And if not anything, Sandy has been so much about fear-mongering - "make sure you have drinking water and candles and batteries," "Make sure you stay away from windows"... this is not to say that there is no real suffering - yes, people have died, people have been stranded... But everything said and done, this is the reality for many people in this world day after day after day. I think of the flood plains of Bangladesh, where tens of thousands die every year in floods. I think of the families who sleep under bridges in New Delhi - 365 days a year. I think of the many more who have already lost their lives to Sandy in the Caribbean. What gives us (the Americans) the right to expect that the Universe is somehow obliged to uphold our health, wealth and youth at all costs? I am thankful to Sandy for reminding us about where our lives and preferences stand, vis-a-vis the vast theatre of life!!

Amazing fury and yes, beauty of Mother Nature as she rages outside. I couldn't resist going out for a brief stroll about an hour ago. On Roosevelt Island, the river is level with the boardwalk, and water is flowing right in! No separation between land and water. Winds gusting so hard that it is hard even for me to stand in one spot. Lots of trees broken, uprooted. But also amazingly beautiful -fierce - like Kali or Rudra or Oya... Certainly once in a lifetime experience and I am so glad I went out...

By Sushmita Mukherjee.

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A birth...Inset of a storm

Somehow, the onset of Sandy, a birthday letter written in a distant land and another infamous birth with a famous comet like life span 125 years ago on this same date, seemed  as an incidental planning by destiny.

He was indeed a stormy appearance on the pages of Bangla Literature. He still lives and will always occupy a place in our heart as he was the one who taught us the logic of illogical imagination, and taught us how to think, how to ride the dreams to listen to the thundering creation:

Sukumar Ray...a legend we still  live by.

If Wishes Were...

“Is it that beautiful?” she whirled around at the baritone voice.

“Is the painting that beautiful?” the voice belonged to a well groomed middle aged person. She looked at him with a guilty smile.

“I know I have been staring at it. It is beautiful” she replied. He was quite tall, so she had to look up to meet his inquiring gaze.

“Why?”

Now she was at complete loss for words.

The painting in question was a part of a week long art exhibition that was organised in the Seema Art Gallery. She, being an art dealer, always attended the exhibitions. The painter Avik Gupta was a name which was gaining a quite popularity in the circuit. He was known for his post impressionist influences in his contemporary style. His paintings used vibrant colors unabashedly often irritating the critics with his non-conformist ways.

Raya, on the other hand was a biased observer. She had always felt a curious attraction towards his paintings. As if they were trying to communicate something to her, a feeling, or some thoughts. She often experienced a rush of emotion whenever she had seen some of his work, and this one in particular had absolutely mesmerized her. She would often try to guess what he was like in person. At times, she felt as she had known him for a long time. All the landscapes, events, objects, were nothing but a part of her imagination to which he had lent his colors.

This in particular was a painting of a woman, arms extended towards the sky, as if asking for something, set in the backdrop of vibrant hues of dawn. It was completely inexplicable what she had felt towards the creation.

“I can’t explain, it’s too beautiful. I really can’t explain” She smiled at him, and turned towards the painting again. But this time her whole being was aware of his penetrating gaze scanning her back. She felt uneasy.

“I think I understand. You have been visiting us every day, same time; same painting and then you leave.” He looked at her, directing his gaze at her profile. “I guess I was just curious, care for a coffee?” the tone was casual .She turned to look at his eyes, his deep penetrating eyes. Something was pulling her towards him. She was uneasy but plain curiosity made her blurt out, “I don’t mind”.

They walked together to the corner coffee shop and took the corner table. By this time she was completely wired to his movements. He pulled out a chair for her then sitting in his chair, again looked at her and smiled. This time it was a soft beautiful smile which lit up his eyes.

Raya was rooted to her chair. Why on the earth was she reacting to him in such a childlike manner? She pretended to glance through the menu card. Blur. “Well, milk, sugar? Coffee Indiana...whatever that might mean” baritone again. She nodded, looked at him. He seemed oddly familiar like an old song. Maybe somebody in the Gallery, or a visitor like herself.

Raya looked at him and smiled, “I often come to the Gallery. I am sorry but I did not catch your name.”

“I never mentioned it. Is it really very important? Let’s talk about something else.” He looked directly into her eyes “You have not answered, what is so special about the painting?”

“The woman, the posture, fighting, reaching out, independence, I don’t really know...I wish I could reach out to the sky like that.”

“You can, you know. You just have to wish it hard enough” He picked up a tissue,his fingers brushing her hand. She recoiled, electrified. “You have to close your eyes and only feel yourself and then will be able to fly, light as a bird.”

She was mesmerized by his tone, the words spoken resounded in her heart. “I don’t think that’s possible. How can we think only about ourselves? We are but the extensions of our surroundings. It’s impossible”

“Of course it’s possible. For example we are sitting here chatting over a cup of coffee. This is reality, we are right now separated from our identity, so we can be ourselves just here and now, let ourselves be free and reach out just like the painting.” He picked up the coffee mug, eyes twinkling over the rim. “Tell me your dreams.”

“My dreams? Let me think. I have never thought about it,really”

“Anything, come on let’s not waste time, think, think. What is it you dream about, often?”

“Dream?” her eyes lighted up. “Mountains. A cottage, fireplace, a swing, you know the jute swings, a book on my lap and cuddled up with a special someone, light snowy drizzle outside. A light massage...” She popped open her eyes. What was she doing? Blabbering about her innermost dreams to a complete stranger. “Who are you?” she croaked.

“Does it really matter? So mountains .Hmm” He was touching her with his eyes, her gaze was transfixed. “Come, drink the coffee”. He smiled the knowing smile. It was then he touched her hand. She looked at him, alarmed.

“Relax, just relax”. She could not pull away. She felt his warm palm, slowly messaging her fingertips. It was a wonderful feeling, her whole body responded. It was here and now, nothing else mattered.

“Just close your eyes.” His voice was now a whisper. “Come follow me, let’s go to the mountains. Beautiful white ranges surrounding us. It’s an English cottage, red bricks, and fireplace, warm room. We enter; I am holding you close to my body. Pace by pace, walking slowly up to the swing in front of the fireplace. We sit on the swing, there is a book lying on it, its ‘Rebecca’. You pick it up, and open at a marked page. You start reading; I lightly stroke your arm, touching your body like a whisper. ” She was absolutely helpless, pliant and soft. She was in a to and fro motion, the printed pages in front of her.. They sat down curled unto each other.

“This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. Here we sat together; Maxim and I, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny little fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again…For them it was just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close, imprisoned and secure, as I did. They were not afraid.” 

“We swing together. To and Fro, to and fro. I touch your hands, curled up in mine, holding you from behind, and the fire burns. You feel me, comforting, caring. The swing in motion. Drizzle and snow continue like white speck of starlight against the window. Just relax...” his voice was in seductive whisper.

She was all feelings now, her hand a complete captive in his, he was playing with her palm now, soft massaging touch...she was on that swing  lightly moving, his body comforting her, making her senses reel..

“Madam, aap aur kuch lengey?” Her eyes snapped open. She looked blankly at the face in front of her, “Aap aur kuch lengey?”

She looked at the vacant chair in front of her, still unable to believe. Where was he? Who was he? Questions were hounding her in multitudes. “Saab?”

“Saab to chaley gaye. Bill detey bakht,apko yeh deneko kaha.” The waiter held out a tissue paper.

Raya glanced at it, scripted in neat and beautiful hand were the words “Dreams have their roots buried in the reality, follow your heart and you will live them. Just be brave enough to dream on....A”