Skip to main content

Damn Fool

I came home to pick my cards. After deliberating long about the present situation of the world and how cheap and merciless girls can be, and chalking out the plan to punish the new tenant who is refusing to pay Rs. 500 chanda for Durga Puja, we came to the conclusion that our country is going to the dogs.
We had a soulful of bidi…me, Pradipta, Sanjoy, Subhasis and Shanti. We were tired of the heated debate that over the above-mentioned subjects, we felt a strong urge to entertain ourselves. I went for the cards.
We are a bunch of educated unemployed youth. Some of us have done their masters, I am only the underdog. I am a high school dropout.
I am filled with business ideas and am sure given a chance, I can be the next stock-market king. But my brother, who has a unfair biased (thanks to my boudi) over my intellect is not ready to lend me a mere five thousand to start with.
He is an officer with Reserve Bank of India and that’s a burden for me. He would not let me work in a factory, or in a drug shop, he also does not allow me to take up profitable ventures like supplying Gutkha or panparag and cigarettes to pan shops.
He would not allow me do anything, as it would hamper his reputation. Yet, he and boudi would not spare me for destroying their rice. “Anna ka dushman”, that I am to them.
My father has passed away when I was in class nine. Mother followed suite after two years and by eleven, my brother was my guardian.
And he was a nice guardian, I should say. Things turned bitter after one year of his marriage. First I hated my boudi, now I try not to notice her also. Frankly, me and my sister-in-law both want that I should be thrown out of the house. She thinks I am a junk, but if it happens, I would get my salvation.

I went home to pick up my cards. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law crossed my path. Am surely gonna lose miserably today.
I know she would be going for a party. I have seen her masked face (like a white plastered ghost she looked) in the morning. She applies this home made pack before she goes to a party. And she does it often. She thinks it gives her an eternal shine.
She halted after a few pace. “Are you free dear?” she inquired.
--Yes I am, why anything to bring from the shop?
--No nothing, you are not busy I hope, are you sure you have no urgent work to attend to?
(I know this, she asked it intentionally. It’s called pinching. She’s master in this.)
--No absolutely not, tell me…
--if you are not busy…well, …please don’t mind…
--I don’t (I dare not mind, I am dependent on you)
--well, if you are free, can you please take Shankey for an evening walk please.
--sure (my evening is ruined)
Shankey is not a dog, it’s the name of my fat, flabby nephew.
I have to take him for a walk. He is five, and he would not let her mother get prepared for a party. She would have to take him also. And unconfirmed report says, he is a genious. Wherever he goes, he leaves a mark of his.
Last week he went to Mr. Majumdar’s house. He was particularly interested in Majumdar’s mother’s photo.
After Shankey left the party, Majumdar realized, the photo is still there but the glass in the frame is missing and his mother was doning a blue moustache and a blue cigarette with blue flames gushing out like from a chimney.
No wonder, boudi does not want to take him this time.

I took Shanky to the nearby ground. He is only five but weighs 34 kg. His sole aim in life is to gulp junk food. He is a very religious boy. Pizza hut is temple for him.

I avoided pradipto’s house as they would be waiting for me there.

I could realize Shankey was like a fish out of water. Complete disbelief in his eyes, as he saw, some boys of his age kicking a dirty ball. I looked sideways to him. He looks like a zaminder watching his subjects playing village-olympics. Complete hatred in his eyes for his fellow mud-dwellers.

I dared to tell him, why don’t you join them? (I will get some time to smoke a bidi, I am tired of you, you pig).
He snarled, “shesssshh.”

Plan A didn’t work, so plan B…
--shankey, why don’t you run to that post and get back here. I’ll see how fast you come back (that will be enough to finish my bidi).
--why? ki labh tate? (what’s I will get running?) it’s foolish.
Valid point, there is no gain in running like a fool. We were a perfect fool when we were small, his father was a perfect nonsense, he used to wake up in the early morning for a run.
Still, I tried to convince him, “no then you will get a healthy body.”
--I am healthy, maa says (no you are not, you turkey!)
I tried to hit his sentiment, his weak point, and his mother’s too “no, than you will be taller, like your friends in school, than nobody will tell you motu-natu (I could sense the horns growing in my head).
He thought about it for sometime. He fought back, “I am not motu-natu. I am healthy.”
--“no than you will be healthier” (god forbid), I tried to convince him.
--I don’t need to run to become healthier, I drink horlicks and complan.
All my high spirits were grounded by this apang-opung-jhapang logic of the growing child.
I kept mum. And we spent nearly half-an-hour in complete silence.
At the age of five, he has been convinced by his parents, that I am nothing but a domestic help.
He did not care me at all. “I want to go home, ” my lord ordered.
“why, the air is nice, isn’t it a nice place, why don’t we hang on for a while.
“I said, I want to go home. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?.”
I understood, though I wanted to play some chin music to him. I restrained. Pet ka sawal hai.
--so shall we move, I asked his consent.
--that’s what I told you. Mother is right, you are a bumbling idiot.

I didn’t waste time to bring him back home. Actually I took the short-cut. From prodipto’s house.
“I am coming, wait five minutes,” i informed them.

Shankey sink into his comfy sofa, when I left his room.
Minutes later, I could hear the loud sounds of video game coming from his room.

I took my cards, light the bidi, left the room.


Rimi said…
this was good, man. and boss, my last comment a few posts back (to which you replied to at length) was supposed to be...erm, *funny*. jai hok.

this is a fun blog, though. i like :) incidentally, this extremely tyaansh person i knew in school used to refer this sort of lit. as (imagine oshojhyo nyaka voice): "baba! ki cha-biskoot type bong middleclassism!"
Ghetufool said…
hi rimi,
thanks that you visited my blog again. i thought, you would not, thought you are angry.
thanks for warding off the misconception.
and does your tyaansh person thnk he or she lives in U.S.
comeone, emotive writing is our style isn't it. we dont have a figue like that of a european or american. if uttam kumar would take a machine gun in his hand (provided he could carry it) and proclaim in a movie like arnie "ami abar phire ashbo". than how would it would be?
we are cha-biscuit creature, middleclassism is our pride. let it be.
thanks,do come again

Popular posts from this blog

Let it rain hard

About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…

On Mithi

I became a father on 18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least, that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut, I later got to know.
The realisation of becoming a fathe…

The Sculptor's Tale

(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he would coax me to get working. And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions. I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …