Dream

Time and again, to the fluorescent beam from heaven,

When people rise from bed to pray

And leopards chase their hunts to prey-

When the rational lot washes to kick off the day

When optimists flip pages from the past,

To predict the future, after repeated blasts-

I sleep like a lazy dog.

That insignificant breath of outbound energy,

That trivial voice from the dry throat,

That force of gravitation which is so tough to refuse

Pull together a trick, in immersing me

In the joy of dreaming, a little longer-

Indefinitely progressing, waiting eagerly

For the next fight or the next love.

Never could fathom the pace of clock,

Never convinced that the past is past,

Never sure what’s wrong in coming last-

All that’s on the shelf and make me proud

Is fleeting in the crowd, lost in abundance,

 Trying to justify the next best step

To comfort and the meaning of peace.

The vision blurred, the fading jingle,

The beauty of imagination

To reinvent success, out in the real,

Clearly missing on the climax

Because I’m fighting, sweating out-

Continuously in sleep,

While others are trying to live.

The trip

As the green landscape bade adieu to the speeding car that wheeled through what could be used by high-school teachers as an example of oxymoron- the beautiful badlands, Barun experienced lack of oxygen. Psychologically. And a little later, biologically. Or may be, in the other order.

Too educated to experience the slowdown of time around him, he wanted the journey to end. It had been back-breaking. He had never driven so far up. And for so long. As trees almost disappeared from his rear-view mirror, he smiled at what was printed on it: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Lies, his heart protested. He turned on the music to divert his attention from the reducing oxygen level. Within minutes, he knew it wouldn’t work. He undid one button of his shirt to let air in.

Barun slowed the car down in the middle of the road. There was no vehicle in sight. He killed the engine and heaved a deep sigh. Looking at the watch and then outside the window, he knew it was time for sundown, except that he didn’t feel darkness was imminent. His mind asked him not to trust the watch. He took a Diamox to fight altitude-sickness. Instant relief wasn’t promised. At least, he saw no signs!

For Barun, it was no longer a journey- it was a challenge. He had fought at home and at office to earn this break. He was escaping the pollution, the population and the games of probability he was tired of playing. He did not know why he acted like he did. You could call it madness. Or revolt. Or a burst of energy bottled only to be released like shaken soda.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone for almost a day! None except the tea-stall or dhaba owner where he stopped to get himself rejuvenated. He did not feel very good. He wanted to make a phone call. He knew he could not. There was an intense feeling of simultaneous push and pull- one forcing him away from the regularities of civilization to the world of unknown and the other luring him towards familiarity with utmost energy. This was a dilemma he hadn’t expected. Familiar triviality versus Alien grandeur!

As brain overruled his heart, he jumped into the car, tied his seat-belt and gave life to his engine. He was headed for the nearest village. As he approached, he saw houses converted to motels to accommodate travelers scattered here and there. A few, very few- were up to his ‘standard’. He checked in one of them. He badly wanted a hot-water bath.

“It takes half an hour to boil water here.”

Disappointed, he went to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water.

“Is there a phone here? An STD booth?”

“Yes, sir, there’s one down there but it usually remains offline.”

“What do you have for dinner?”

“Whatever we eat, we’ll serve you. Rice, dal, chapati, vegetables. It will be very tasty, I promise. If you want chicken, we can get it for you tomorrow.”

He wouldn’t wait to have chicken the next day and taste was the last thing on his mind.

Barun heard weird sounds all night and kept squirming in his bed. He wanted to run away. In the morning he left without even a cup of tea. As he drove through the curves, he lived in constant fear of death. What was happening? Was it because of the lack of sleep last night? Was it acrophobia? Was it loneliness? Was it his difficulty in accepting his new way of life?

As the tires rolled dangerously close to the edge of the road, Barun woke up in sweat, gasping.

On his bed. In his room.

The first thing he did was to go straight to the next room where his daughter was getting ready for school. He picked her up and hugged her.

“Papa, when are you leaving for your tour?”

“I’m not going. We are going”, smiled Barun, visibly transiting from a state of relief to that of happiness.

Father to his son

A little boy held his father’s hand,

As he passed by the statue so grand,

He asked his father, “Why is a crow perched

Atop that old man, why’s there no guard?”

Taken aback, the father replied,

“On 2^nd of October do we bring garland,

Sweets and flowers for this sage,

Who wished to see the tricolor fly with grace!

Political undertones that strip the mass of clarity,

Other hundred scars that mar the face of verity

Too critical of us we are, too many problems, dear?

Don’t our prayers the trillion gods hear?

That old man still believes in the power of charity,

The strength of self-healing, the valor of solidarity-

The crow wouldn’t mock his soul

If we could set the wheel of his ideals to roll-

If we could see what he saw, son,

If we knew Freedom was not free,

If we knew the old man needn’t a crown,

More than a poor traveler a tree! ”

Bad smell, good times…

[This article is my entry for "Smelly To Smiley!", held by AmbiPur and Indiblogger]

Seven days. That was how long I was to stay in my home. When I had approached my boss for a leave, he said he would approve my ‘vacation’. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t asked for a vacation. I had asked for a week off. The word ‘vacation’ somehow still evoked images of fun-filled month-long summer holidays. When I was back to consciousness, my colleagues had a good time laughing at my interpretation of the word. I was bent on making the most of my hard-earned vacation. Yes, I had worked weekends. No, I didn’t tell my parents about it, lest they worry.

Anyway, when I got home, I was somewhat disappointed to find my parents fighting over small things. However, I soon found out that those small things were their idea of making me happy in those seven days.

Maa screamed at Baba, “Why did you bring chicken? Don’t you know that he doesn’t get to eat fish when he’s away? You should have brought Hilsa!”

Baba retorted, “What is wrong with you? You forgot that he loves chicken more than Hilsa…”

Arguments went back and forth as I lay tinkering in bed. No one thought of soliciting my opinion!

These little things stopped bothering me in a couple of days.

Now, one of these days, as my mother was away chatting with a neighbor, I smelt something. It did not take me long to identify the smell of scorching milk. Initially I ignored, thinking that the smell might have been from a neighbor’s house, and went back to reading the novel. As the odor grew stronger, I bookmarked the page I was reading, got up and ran toward the kitchen.

What I saw next was something I had seen all my life- milk left for scalding was scorched by overheating. The pan had turned black by the scathed milk, which now dry, held on to the container like an injured seeking help. The smell was not a stranger to me.

As I shouted from the kitchen, inviting Maa to witness the not-so-glorious sight, she came running, with her tongue stuck out between her jaws, having already realized how silly it was of her to leave the milk boiling for so long! She knew she would be forgiven for this misdemeanor. All her life, that’s what she had experienced.

I was angry. “You left it unattended again?”

She defended, “Aha, you see, I have so many things to do…I forgot about it totally! What does your father do all day...”
And then I knew what was to follow: an elaborate explanation of what all things Baba should be doing to help her out. I took my mind away.

Black and white frames zipped past me. Some fifteen years back, when I was a kid in school, my mother had kept me guard to see that milk didn’t get spilled from over-boiling. In some time, I was bored of this duty. A monkey chewing on a piece of jackfruit by our window had distracted me. I walked toward the window. It was immensely entertaining for a boy of ten. I observed it keenly. I was brought to senses only by the smell of burning milk. It wasn’t pungent. It was different. But it meant disaster. Since my mother was near, the odor got to her sooner than I had expected. She was approaching me. She admonished, “How many times did I tell you? Why do you get distracted so easily? Learn to be more patient or you’ll be in trouble later on!”

As my mother shook me up, I traveled forward in time to the present. Nostalgia had engulfed me completely.

I realized that over these years, there has been reversal of role. I had started advising and even scolding my mother. The odor of scathing milk was witness to my growth. Never did I feel so overwhelmed for having been rude to Maa. I wanted the roles to revert. I wanted to go back in time. To be reprimanded. And back to her caring canopy.

Faithful

The black umbrella swayed precariously as wind from the sea gathered strength with every dash of wave breaking on the sand. Awed by the jugalbandi of rain and wind, Shrishti sped up. The sun was already half-masked by the dark clouds. The last rays of sun whispered into her ears, “Fast! It’ll be dark in no time”.

Far way, sailors struggled in mid-sea as their dark outlines gave an eerie sensation about an impending danger. Muttering prayers her mother had taught, she strode with eyes half-open. As she was about to turn right to the path that led to the cottage, Shrishti saw something moving behind one of the rocks that separated the sand on the beach from the holiday cottages that faced the sea.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer.

Half a mile away, Shrishti’s father moved impatiently from one corner of the lawn to the other, hands behind, all the while cursing his wife for having let Shrishti go to the beach alone.

“How many times have I told you not to let her go to the beach alone? Look at the sky! You just don’t care…What kind of a…”

The mother had not spoken all this while. Clearing her throat, she blurted out, “Why don’t you go and see?”

Here at the beach, Shrishti took tiny steps towards the object. She made an effort to recognize it but the fading light played spoilsport. It moved again. Her mind warned, “Don’t go there. There could be a dangerous man hiding behind the rock.” The inquisitive heart refused to comply. After all, her father was an army officer.

As she approached the rock, she could hear a groaning sound. The crashing waves didn’t let her make out clearly. Four steps later, everything was clear. Jimmy was lying there, one leg stuck underneath the rock. Shrishti immediately folded the wet umbrella and threw it on the sand. Then, with both hands, she tried to lift the corner of the rock under which Jimmy’s legs had got stuck. Soon, she was able to get Jimmy out without hurting him.

As she picked the puppy in her arms, Jimmy caressed her in gratitude. The next moment, Jimmy looked eastwards. He was trying to indicate something. Shrishti looked in that direction. It took her a few seconds to realize what Jimmy was trying to show. It was an ear-ring- the one that her mother had lost last morning.

The ear-ring was special. It was gifted to her mother by her father on their anniversary, three days back. The vacation had turned somewhat sour when she was not able to find the ear-ring after the bath the previous day. The father had said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another one.” But mother wouldn’t listen. She had walked miles down the shore looking for it. After a futile effort, she had given up, but her mind was lost in the sorrow of having lost the special thing. For the last two days.

Shrishti picked up the ring and the umbrella and ran towards the cottage.

“Mamma, see what Jimmy has found!” , shouted Shrishti excitedly as she held out her right hand, while stooping to release Jimmy who ran through the lush green lawn and then up into her father’s arms.

The glistening ear-ring in Shrishti’s right hand was visible even in the dark.

The whole family smiled. And Jimmy clearly was part of it.

The Supermoon

Clouds are vying to conceal

The beautiful bright sheen

Adorning the night sky, pristine!

Full and round, bright and brilliant;

A lesson for all-

To be so powerful and yet silent.

The glass windows by my bed,

Allow the snowy rays to filter through;

I’ll leave the curtains ajar,

Shut my eyes and drown -

Like a cube of ice in wine in a bar-

While secretly appreciating

That my eyes can’t spot its scar!

The halt

A bottle, almost half-filled with mineral water rolled off the edge of the tray with a noise that was just enough to wake him up. Water spilled over onto the floor.

“Ah, Rashi, didn’t you cap it properly after drinking?”, the fifty-something man admonished his daughter, as he stooped to pick up the bottle with his left hand while using his right foot to shove the shoes away from the mess.

The man was not more than five-and-a-half feet tall. He wore an old-fashioned pair of glasses that concealed his mischievous eyes with an air of intelligentsia. Half-bald by the combined forces of age and heredity, this stout man had the appearance of a typical small-town businessman. His daughter, in her early twenties, was certainly not very beautiful but was pretty enough to exact lengthy glances from young passers-by.

The train journey hadn’t so far been very memorable. Nested in one corner of the compartment was the daughter. Just next to her was her father.  A nap between two stations ensured that time flew faster than usual, as they attempted to fight the ennui ensuing with every passing minute. But a sudden jolt had woken them up. The train had come to a halt. But there wasn’t a platform in sight.

“No signal yet again? The railways must be shut down! It’s already running so late”, complained a middle-aged gentleman to the left of this man, wiping sweat off his forehead by the stroke of his forefinger.

The daughter hadn’t paid much attention to the world outside her iPod. She was mindlessly tapping her feet to the beats of a song she played so loud that it almost got the boy opposite her tapping his feet as well! With the train now standstill, the breeze had stopped blowing. The girl removed the earplugs with a sigh of discontent.

A tall man with a mustache came running down the aisle. Startled by his panicky movements, the passengers exchanged confused glances. One of them couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter? Is everything alright?”

Paying no heed to the question, he walked past briskly, only to stop again at the same question by an old bespectacled man. This time again, he paid no attention but cared to reply more out of annoyance than courtesy-

“Someone pulled the chain.”

In a moment, all eyes turned towards the window. Men hanging from the door were shouting fiercely at a short young man running with a grey suitcase towards a village. Green pastures disappeared into the horizon. And apparently so did he plan to! Chasing the man would be a futile exercise, considering the fate of the thousand stranded travelers. The railway officials had given up.

Rashi was quick to recognize the suitcase the man was fleeing with. She quickly caught hold of her father’s arm, “Look, it’s that suitcase!”

In no time, the father realized that the suitcase that was carefully perched on the upper berth was no longer at its place.

The suitcase wasn’t theirs. Nor did it belong to any of the passengers in that bogie. They had lived in constant discomfort ever since they had discovered it after boarding the train.

“Let’s open and see if there’s an address of the owner”, a tall man who acted like a detective, had advised.

But before he could execute his plan, one lady had disclosed her concern. She'd complained to her husband, “Haven’t you seen those advertisements they show on TV? This might be a bomb. No place in this world is safe. There are terrorists everywhere!”

The husband had dutifully complied by engaging the fellow passengers in a discussion.

“Let’s throw it away”, proposed one. But he dared not bell the cat. In fact, no one would touch it. Some tried to get hold of a policeman in the train but to no avail.

“Okay, we should wait for the next station and inform the police”, suggested an aged gentleman. Everyone had agreed to the only seemingly feasible solution. The next station was an hour away.

“So, we’ll have to wait”, sighed a worried passenger, who embraced his kid, promising safety.

While they waited, the long journey coupled with the May heat had taken its toll on their body, inducing sleep from time to time, despite the cause of worry. The wait had come to a premature halt with the thief running away with the suitcase. The passengers did not know whether to thank him or not.

The father looked at his daughter, smiled at her and caressed her hair. Rashi reciprocated and soon went back to listening to her little device.

The Competition

It was barely early summer. Mr. Saha always thought that the education system in the country had become a farce. The summer vacation came as planned by the ‘academic’ calendar at the beginning of the year, irrespective of the cruelty meted out by the bright star light years away. And when it was time for schools to reopen, the sun was too strong that the government had to order them to shut down again. The erratic behavior of nature should hardly dictate the academic calendar, argued the officials in the education ministry. Irony was- it somehow did.

Almost every year, the two months of vacation had to be extended by another two weeks. Kids were happy. So were the teachers. Discontent showed only on the faces of the parents. Saha, for example, wanted his son Bimal to go to school simply because school would discipline him. Bimal was shy and introvert, disciplined and courteous. Saha, however, was never at ease, having seen multiple times on his way back from office, his son’s friends furtively puff cigarette at the paan shop near the school. Thirteen isn’t the best age for this, pondered Saha, himself a heavy smoker.

To put to productive use the long vacation that never seemed to end, Saha decided that he would arrange a competition for Bimal and his friends. Outdoor games weren’t an option. Snakes and ladders weren’t exactly for thirteen-year olds. Ah, how about chess? Saha went to speak to other parents.

History teacher Mukherjee vehemently agreed, “Nice idea, Mr. Saha. Chess originated in India…” He went on with a boring lecture on the history of chess.

Sarkar seemed uninterested. To Mukherjee’s embarrassment, he quipped in, “Is that why my son finds history so boring?” Others broke into a fit of laughter. He also added, “Not everyone might find chess interesting. My son Bikas likes football. I’m sure he will not like it. He will lose matches and quit. Our purpose is thus defeated.”

Dutta was listening intently. While everyone was debating, he hadn’t said a word. But now, while everyone else was trying to think of an alternative, he took a loud sip from his cup and then spoke up.

“Wonderful tea, Mukherjee babu. Do you know about the origin of tea?"

Mukherjee was sweating. Everyone else looked confused.

Dutta continued, "How about a quiz contest?”

Dutta explained, “Everyone will find it exciting. You can have questions on sports, Sarkar babu. And history too, Mukherjee babu. Films, geography, physics, current affairs and what not!”

The idea hadn’t struck anyone before. The word “competition” somehow always managed to conjure an image of some kind of ‘sport’. Quiz was never considered a sport. Now that Dutta’s proposal had gotten everyone into thinking about the merits of the ‘game’, Mukherjee nodded in soft approval, “Yeah, everyone would learn in the process.”

Dutta carried the discussion forward. “You like sports, you read about it out of interest. I am a movie-buff. I go straight to the movie section, first thing in the morning. But I don’t know about sports or science. How do I learn it? Barter system! Old school, yet very effective.”

He continued after another sip, “In quiz, you just cannot sit with your ears shut. Even if you’re into history, and the question is on politics, you’ll listen to the answers of other teams, discuss with others in your team to get the right answer. Guess it, at least. Even if you remember half the answers, it serves more than our purpose!”

The next week went into grouping the kids into teams of four- each with as far as possible, interests in a different area! The date of the event was fixed one month away from the formation of the group. Saha and Dutta took keen interest in bringing the kids and getting them to participate in the event. Most of the students readily agreed to be part of it. Those who weren’t sure initially were convinced soon since they only had to study about their favorite subject. Moreover, the sun was too brutal on them for them to play outside for long.

The next few weeks saw boys and girls spending their afternoons with newspapers, quiz books, magazines and often the internet. One of Mukherjee’s students, who was now pursuing his post-graduate degree, agreed to be the quiz-master.

Twentieth of June saw desks and tables being set up in the spacious garden in Mukherjee’s backyard. The evening happened to be a time that the entire neighborhood happened to remember for quite some time.

“Who wrote, The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

“Oscar Wilde”, shouted one of them.

“Which year was the first FIFA World…”

“1930!”, the answer came before the question could be completed. “Easy”, complained others.

“Name the capital of Norway”

“Oslo”, was the confident Ananya’s reply.

Prizes were given away at the end. A cricket bat! A music CD! A CD of a popular video-game! All sponsored by the parents.

The next year saw Sarkar’s football-freak son answer questions on science,  Dutta’s studious son jovially answer questions on sports and Bimal getting the questions on movies correct!

Two generations lived happily ever after.