Cheating

I remember when I was a small kid, I used to pull the plug on my mother.

She was, as usual, my first guru. She used to give me all sort of crazy Bengali spellings.
Like ‘kujjhatica’. And I have to write the spelling of the author. Pretty complicated to me even now. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. How I wished to kick this man when I grow up.

As usual after giving my best efforts for several hours, I used to fail spelling both. And my playing hours would tick by. Mother never allowed me play with my friends until I have finished with reading the sahaj path (that was not sahaj at all) fluently.
The only benefit was I used to read it without any effort as the entire book was memorized and I could recite it eyes shut.

I remember I used to rub the troublesome spelling with my saliva and wipe it out from existence. Then, poker-faced, I used to go to her in the kitchen. “maa, maa, bananta to aar pacchi na. Kemon kore jeno muche geche.”

My mother used to leave me. I did not waste time to kick the ragged old football in the muddy field. And I thought I am very intelligent and the idea is fool-proof.

My father, who is very mild in nature (I used to witness his karak image twice in a year, during the time of results) used to play with me and sister during studies.
If the education department of our family would have been with us, I swear, by now, I would have been an expert farmer, complete illiterate.

Once I employed the same tactics to my father. I rubbed a certain English word from my rapidex-reader and complained to him, "the word vanished, and I have nothing to study now" (I had written the table of two, my mother would have made me write the table of seventeen). My father, looked at me for length and said, “so you have nothing to do now”
No, said i.
So, what to do, you are free to play.

I jumped from the bed. Took my cricket bat (size 3), put my cap and attempted to conquer the world.

Before opening the gate, my father came to me called “shon shon”.

I went to him, innocent as an afghan hound.
He spoke in a very cold voice, “Janis ami ke?”
I was flabbergasted, I figured what to answer, before I can speak, he lightened my confusion, “mone rakhis, bhule jaas na, ami tor baba, tui jei schooler chatro, ami tar headmaster.”
I said, “jah, tomay konodin schoole dekhiee ni.”

He smiled. I went to play. I didn’t understand what he meant that time. I understand now.

Baba, maa, I love you. I miss you.

My love

I was feeling restless. One month of exams had fucked up all the finesse in me. Now it’s over. I don’t study all the year-long. So it gets particularly demanding during exam time.

I needed to lighten up. I desperately wanted to get back my life. I wanted to hold arpita’s hand in mine. I called her in her mobile for an evening walk to our favourite spot.

I called her and said she should meet me at five in the Batamore bus stand. We would cross Ganga and go to Sodepur. That is our usual love-route. We don’t sit in Konnagar Baramandir Ghat on our side. We would get caught by a thousand watchful eyes who know us both very well.

It’s not that we give a tiny rat’s arse importance to them nor do we care what they say, but certainly we don’t want to be the fodder of neighborly gossip-mongers.

Arpita came right on time. That’s her speciality. She is never late. And she goes away after waiting for only two minutes. So her 5pm is 4.30 for me. I am a renowned late-latiff. Always half an hour late.

We took the lane to ganga-ghat. Bought two tickets.

The launch was waiting for us. We, along with few other passengers boarded it. It started off.

Arpita was looking nice. She was wearing a red salwar. Red is my favourite colour. It’s not that I don’t notice girls who cross my path, but if she is wearin g red, I am ready to turn back. Of course not in front of arpita.

I don’t call her much for a meet. It is she who pesters me to meet her at least thrice a week. I can count how many times I have called her myself. She complains I don’t love her. But maintaining a relationship is a serious burden for me. I feel like a bonded labour whenever she calls me. and I usually keep mum during our courtship whenever I am forced to come. Sometimes I get tired of my daily tribute to her. I am tired uttering ‘I love you’ whenever she suspects there is something lacking. And she suspects it quite often.

My love statement does not sound realistic also. At least to me. This phrase is like an overused prostitute to me. I have used it so much that I seldom mean what I say.

But it has its own magical effect. Arpita is never tired of hearing this phrase. Never tired of listening how lovely she is, how unique she is, and how much I miss her every moment.

This sweet nonsense acts like a cooler. It cools her down immediately.

Sometimes, I can understand, she raises havoc intentionally just to listen how much I love her and how much I am repenting hurting her. And that the particular sentence that I uttered three years back was something that I really didn’t mean. It was just a slip of tongue or that at trhat particular date in June or July (whatever) I was in a state of sorrow and was thinking arpita was not loving me, or that she was not giving me enough importance. I was missing her that time.

All white lies. PR pufferies at its best. But it has a disturbing healing effect on her.

She would immediately start demonstrating how empty she is without me, that she always think of me. she cant live without me. she will make fill my life with love and effection and how devoted a wife she would be. As an example she would remind me how savage and uncouth I was five years ago and how she transformed me into a cultured, civilized, fine gentleman.

And I always agree with her. But I also used to retaliate. But that was long time back I don’t dare it do again.

When I would get really pissed off, I used to yell at her for making me her lapdog, for single handedly destroying my carefree days, my free-flowing thoughts, my casual shiny outlook towards life and how I miss my sunny days before she stormed into my life with black cumulous clouds. How am a tension patient now and insomnia has attacked me big time.

And I thought, I was winning. She used to listen my grievances with rapt attention. Absolute silence would prevail then from her part. She used to don an expression in her eyes, as if how sorry she is for my present state.

And this sorry disposition of her would encourage me to speak out my mind.

I used to go on telling everything that I am not supposed to say. Controversial stuff like how I have developed a soft corner towards my friend’s sister suchetana.

Little did I realize, she was actually recording my every statement in a hidden recorder in her brain. And those self-confessions, coupled with her sharp tongue would devastate me later on.

Even now, she picks up some choicest quotes, actually part of it, and uses it with the accuracy of a patriot missile to cripple me for the week. And she is never wrong. She knows too well the stuffs that men (surely bastards they are all) are made of.

And that suchetana part? My god, how many times she would crucify me for that. Even if I would admit that suchetana is indeed a bitch, she would not spare me for insulting someone of her sex.

And sometimes, she would simply get frustrated for a week. She would wonder, looking at the sky, sighing, “alas, there is no love left in this universe.” And she would really get upset.

I know the symptom, I know the panacea, I would then take her to a Chinese restaurant, and would kiss her in the cabin.

She would accept my kiss and return it also, she would rest her head for long into my shoulder and remain silent.

Than after coming out from the restaurant, I would have to hear, how love should be platonic and how I have become hungry for bodily love and that I was not like this five years ago. And how disappointed she is with me. I had to agree to every statement of her.

I know, what would come next. She would go home and call in my mobile, and then say “I love you”. And that I should not mind her preachings, this is quite natural in love, but still I needed to behave. These are simply bad things before marriage. I agree.

And today she is lady in red. I am feeling like there is no love left in this universe. I need to kiss her. Let the darkness descent upon the ganga-ghat. I love you arpi.

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.

She

If she had got wings she would definitely fly away, but she is still struggling to escape her misery. She is still awaiting someone, someone who would free her from her perennial distress, someone, who is far far away in a distant land who would never answer her call.

She awaits and I know, she told me, she will wait until her death.

She told me to write this for you to know. I know now you know.

Pyar Me Twist

If sex is moksha for life my dog has achieved nirvana by now.
That day also I spotted him locked in pleasured agony to a German lady. Not that of a homo-sapiens species, my neighbour’s German Shepard had reached her puberty, and she was happy fucking with my nerry kutta (stray dog).
Being a responsible citizen, an Indian citizen, I should have prevented the lower caste to have love interest with that of a high caste, but suddenly the father in me rose and let them go having a whale of a time. And of course the Rangeela effect did not leave me by then. Just two days back I watched that in Lighthouse with Arpita (corner seat).
But my neighbour didn’t find it amazing. He came with a bamboo stick and threatened to attack the Kamasutra models.
But Bhombol is no ordinary dog. He knows how to fight back. His one groan was enough to take the air out of the ‘pyar ke dushman’.
That coward Shakti Kapur started pelting stones at my dog from his terrace. I couldn’t keep quite, I retaliated with a half-brick which fell right near the invader’s feet.
He couldn’t get me, as I was hiding in Abid chacha’s attic.
The perplexed Goswami started looking here and there, fuming but was careful not to shout. If he would have shouted, people would gather and discover her daughter’s scandalous deed.
However, when he recovered from the shock, he started again. I followed suite.
Again perplexed, he started looking towards the direction of the missile.
By then, the lover’s has done their job. After enjoying the virginity of Sweetie, my proud Bhombol peed at the lightpost to ward off any wandering philander and proudly marched away hanging his pink tongue.
Goswami, recovering from the shock, started yelling. “bastard, khankir chele, chud marani, shuorer baccha…”
People gathered around inquired whom he was yelling about. He kept mum. I was in the crowd. I could see his BP rising. And when I asked, what happened Goswamida, he bursted out. “what happend means…your…your…bloody…your…forget it…leorachoda...”
Naturally I was angry, I enquired, are you saying something to me? He melt down…no man, don’t mind I was cross with the construction workers. They didn’t fix the gate properly, gorute ashe fool kheye jay.”
I forgave him.
Days later, Bhombol locked his pleasure point with another one. This time a stray Dalmatian. Abondoned by her owners, since they were changing apartment.
Then he had sex with all the bitches within his jurisdiction.
Surprise surprise, when Sweetie gave birth to six litters, Goswamida sold them stating they were pure-bred. He charged five thousand each for them. Well, not all that he sold.
He gave me one. Don’t know why, may be the grand-father in me rose looking at the litters. After all they are all my Bhombol’s creation. When I asked Goswamida, he gave me a bitch happily. We named her Sundari.
And just after ten months, Bhombole fucked Sundari also, her own daughter. Shameless, in front of everybody they were enjoying each other. My father was preparing for office, he got delayed. My brother was going to his school, he got a shock. I was preparing for my office too. I bunked that day. Thank god, mother was to her brother’s place.
Actually they had started earlier in some obscure corner, when they loitered and came into our notice, it was too late. By then they were in the pleasure lock. Wandering in wonderland.

I locked them into a room to avoid visual pollution. Was waiting for them to finish this fucking business.

Sundari is expecting now. And what you say about the litter that are one third Alsatian and rest from a road dog? Shall we say Roadesian?

So here it goes, Roadesian puppies for free. Interested anyone?

SEVEN

This is what Fool instructed me to do:

Seven things I plan to do
Kiss Aishwarya Rai
Kick Mallika Sherawat
Tour-de-Europe taking my parents, let them see the world (they have done enough for me)
Buy a Maruti 800
Put an invisible cloak and… (I love girls)
Write a book which would fetch me a puilitzer, if not Nobel
Marry the girl whom I have long pined for

Seven things I can’t do
Kiss Aishwarya Rai (Salman has underworld links)
Kick Mallika Sherawat (I fear Jacky Chan)
Cheating
Wake up before five in the morning
Bogging without peeing
Decipher Michael Jackson songs
Crying and complaining to mother, while she comforts me hugging, if somebody hurts me—mentally, physically—I am too grown up for that.

Seven things I say quite often
Baal
Jah kelo
Chool pore gelo
Fuck you bloody
I love you…
What a nonsense…
Gaar mariyeche

I tag Phoenix and Tridib

Correction

I had goofed up last night. Nothing to get excited about the word ‘night’. I work at night. I work when other people sleep and I wake up when other people are preparing for a siesta. And I don’t work in a call center.
Last night I had a correction in my story. I wrote million instead of thousands in a news story. And it hit the wire without any remorse. The editor also missed it.
I didn’t realize my mistake. Five minutes back I had just send the story to the editor. I was checking it on my own after I sent it.
I spotted the mistake myself and ran to the editor to tell him, look sir, kindly check it, I have written million instead of thousands. But just seconds before he had released the news into the wire.
It was too late.
I could see the pain in my editor’s face when I told him about the correction. I was sorry for him.
Writing million instead of thousands is a serious error.
My heart stopped when the good old man began to fix the error and run it one more time in the wire.
I felt the world came to an end. The word ‘corrected’ is practically a nail in the coffin. My first nail had been hammered in. don’t know how many more to go before the final one comes.
I couldn’t sleep whole night. I was worried whether the next day my job would be there or not. I have just joined this famous news agency and before settling things properly, I screwed up.
Was thinking how my parents would get it when they would hear that I have been fired. So many of my friends who joined with me walked down the stairs with their heads drooped.
My seniors, with whom I have developed a nice warm relationship by now, tried to encourage me. Indeed, their comforting words were slokas from geeta for me. It really comforted me.
Everybody has a correction man…they said. Cheer up. Learn from your mistakes, they comforted.
I went to my mentor. He is like an elder brother to me. And he is very aggressive about corrections. He threatened to kill me or chop my balls off if I did one. I thought he would scold me hard. But he grinned. First correction, he said, no problem, don’t repeat. And don’t let it overcome you. I have also got correction.
Yes I will, I have to.
And here was that ever laughing fellow who tried to cheer me up with his example, correction is my second nature man…and don’t think about what you have done. You are a man, you should proudly proclaim yes whatever I have done, I am right, if I get a chance, I will do it again. And congrats for your first correction. Welcome to the world of manhood.
Thanks buddy.

Don’t drop that bomb on me

After my last post, I got at least four phone calls from my friends in Calcutta. Worse still, one from Shillong. People are thinking whatever crap I write in this blog is true. Well, I must confess, I am a very poor guy living a life of hardship. Luxury is an alien word for me. And I am not a scoundrel as not to support my family (if they need).
Don’t confuse with what I am and what I write.
The last post was a synopsis of the drama that I am presently working on. It would be staged during durga puja next year by my group “prayash natyagoshthi”. Don’t confuse it with real me please!
My writing may read morbid and haughty but the drama is actually a comedy one.
I wonder what sanjoy, arup, makra and sudipta will say after watching my drama.
Hope all your misconceptions will be answered to.
You have objected to my post, but did you ever consider, when I jumped into a pond? I don’t know swimming!!!
Why didn’t you ask me who is this arpita or suparna when I write about them? And who the hell is this sushmita?
Well, in arpita you may find semblance of somebody, but do I dare to write about her in such a fashion. Man, I know what the result to piss her is. Afterall, I have to spend my whole life with her! I would not risk my head writing some “secret” article about her.

And yes, I don’t need any body to love me. I am not hungry of love. You all know I have a steady girlfriend from my nappy days.
Well, even if there is any 'sush', how can she cross my road now? I work in Bangalore. Where is the scope of me meeting her in Calcutta.
And my father is too well employed to support his family, and my parents are as hale and hearty as it should be.
Guys take it lightly. And yes, from now onwards, read my posts with a pinch of salt.
If you are convinced that I am the same person you treasure as your friend, do visit my blog again. Please.

Metamorphosis

I was a carefree youth when I was unemployed. The only authority whom I used to fear and respect was my father. I loved my family. Loved to tense my mother, coax my brother, and annoy my sister. Loved to party with my friends. Loved to return late from Debo's house.
Loved to cycle around Nabagram searching for chics. Loved to see their faces, sweet smile. My heart used to run like a wild horse when Sushmita used to cross my path (or I used to cross her…top speed, thought Sush was bowled out…sigh…what an innocent stupid was I). Used to dance with Bryan Adams at 2.30-3 in the morning. Loved to stay awake whole night.
Loved to jump into the pond, loved to annoy neighbours with my tindrum.
Loved to love, to be loved, think of love.
I was a carefree youth.

I am not an old man. Still in my twenties. But now I am afraid of my boss. Afraid of my bank balanace, afraid of my colleagues…lest they mislead my boss.
I suspect my family might be eyeing my bank balance. Afraid, lest my sister ask for money. Afraid if I have to support my brother’s education. Afraid, if I have to treat my ailing parents. I avoid my friends. Afraid, unemployed Devo may ask for help.

Oh…it would take away all my finances. I have to compromise with my luxuries.

I am not interested anymore in a girl’s face only. I want to see it whole. A girl is not she for me. It’s an ‘it’. I relax watching blue films.

I suspect every girl who looks at me. I suspect they are plotting to marry me. They have known, I do a good job. I have woodles of money. I can give them every material happiness they want.

I suspect they are trying to use me as their banker. I have forgotten to find love in their eyes. I am in a giant cauldron of conspiracy.

But still I pine for love. I need somebody to love me! Please please love me. Nobody comes without green or violet eyes.

Sushmita still crosses my path. I don’t cross her’s. I don’t look for her magic eyes now. I try to look at her graying hairs. I look at her breasts.

Sushmita, oh Sushmite, my crazy love, my fire, you are dead. I have killed you.

I don’t take bath in a pond. I may catch a cold. Huge loss, if I miss a day in my office. I get a huge salary. Time is money for me. I cannot afford to lose it.

I still stay awake at night. Can’t sleep. Consulted the doctor. He said, I have got insomnia.
I struggle to sleep every night.

I faced the mirror that day--naked. Somebody laughed at me through the glass. Rebuked me. Said I am a bastard.

Yet, I was a carefree youth.

Forgiveness

I have been employed in several professions since my childhood. Of course, without pay. I was an honorary guard, an honorary judge, honorary rickshaw puller, honorary doctor (when I was in my kindergarten, I used to inject rubi and poornima with my hp pencil. As was standard, I used to inject at their posterior, tetanus booster…you know at that age you need tetanus shot, and doctors used to strip me for that). Felt nice.

But this time I would narrate my experience when I was an honorary postman. Yes, without pay and without even a chocolate I used to ferry letters between mohiruda and nanditadi.

Don’t remember which class I was then, but if I stretch my memory, it goes back to uttam kaku’s schoolvan, so I must be in my pre-high school, probably three or two.

Nanditadi was in her college, I used to hate her when she pecked me before going to her college. She smelled of fish, which I hated. Mohiruda used to live near our football ground and all used to call him mithun, as he resembled and dressed (white poncho, white tight pant with white shoes) his idol.

I don’t remember when I was employed as a postman, but before I realize anything I was also given the task of looking out and inform whether there is anybody in nanditadi’s house. Jethu-jethima used to work in writer’s building and before nine they together used to start for the office.

My duty was to guide mohiruda safely to nanditadi’s room without alerting anybody and give a meaw (sometimes I used to meaw meaw meaw… but they didn’t seem to notice me, closed in nanditadi’s room).

I used to be a hero before I led mohiruda through the perilous path of sarkar dadu’s garden, abid chacha’s courtyard but just after mohiruda used to arrive at nanditadi’s room, they used to shut the room and I was given the task of sitting in the verandah. I was a watchdog then. They didn’t even seem to take a notice of me. I used to get hurt. It was having its toll on my self respect.

I got really enraged one day when mohiruda boxed my ear for not alerting him while jethima came home at the afternoon complaining a chest pain.
He escaped the gallows somehow, was not caught.

I never was interested as what happens after they shut their door. After that physical insult I decided to take revenge, I will tell everything to jethima what they do. And as a matter of fact, if they play ludo or byabsayi without me, that is not fair.

One fateful day I decided to glance through the crack of the door. I really expected I would see they are playing ludo (I have seen a set in that room), but to my amazement I saw, mohiruda atop nanditadi, he was in his birthday suit and his tormentor’s sari started from her hips. Mohiruda was doing don baithak as uttamda do in the morning and nanditadi’s face bore an expression I never saw before.

I was not amazed, rather perplexed I gave a meaw and ran away to play Ramayana war with broomstick dhanuk and teer. As usual khudiram was indrajit and I was ravana. Father and son fought intensely for the whole day. Picking up the teers that were inflicting them so heavily.
I did not tell jethima, what I saw, as I could not describe it and there was some kind of feeling that something was wrong and am a part of the crime. I quit from the post of postman. No persuasion, chocolate, thums up, gujia or ghoori could convince me to reconsider my resignation. I never told them what I saw.

Nanditadi got married when I was in class nine. By then I have known many things, what is what and what makes what. I hated nanditadi from deepest gorge of my heart.

Nanditadi and mohiruda affair ended in a disaster. They couldn’t marry. Mohiruda was a muslim. Apart from the family, moral police also stepped in. Both revolted against parents, society but couldn’t touch the finishing line. After marriage nanditadi cared her husband as if there is only one man, past and presently in her life. She was a sita in the making. My hatred for her engulfed me. One day when I intentionally mentioned mohiruda in front of her husband, while I was in an invitation to her place, she squeezed her brows, grimaced as if trying to remember who the man is, and then burst into laughter “oh that mithun…he was a joker, everybody used to joke with him…we used to call him royal clown.” Her husband and she burst into laughter, her children shantu-mantu began to enquire about the clown. She has forgotten everything!

Mohiruda also never ever mentioned about nanditadi when we used to meet, and we met frequently. Instead he would suggest me how should I mould my career and how I could become good human being, what is the best way to lead a happy life and all sort of unsolicited nonsense. Each time I used to quip “I have seen you naked bastard.”

Two years back my mobile woke me up in the early morning. It was a frantic call from nanditadi. She was calling me from a booth. In a shivering voice she said mohiruda has met with a freak train accident two-days ago and is in Calcutta hospital, she was weeping and fervently requesting me to go there and inform her what happened to ‘mohi’. She said ‘mohi’! That was his love name.

I obliged, not because of nanditadi’s neka kanna but because by then I had developed an emotional attachment with mohiruda. He was a nice to me after all. I was a postman again. Without a letter.

He was lying in ICU, badly disfigured, two legs and a hand amputated. Half naked, waiting to die. His special request was to grant people visit him. We went one by one.

He was conscious, looking me, he tried to smile “hi postman, ki khobor?” I couldn’t move my lips. He finished, “tell your nanditadi, I love her.”

I came out of the ICU. I went to belghoria to tell nanditadi, what his message was for her. She burst out crying. I couldn’t control her; she was rolling on her bed. Pillows, bed sheet every thing was wetting in the flood of her tears. Real ones.

I couldn’t resist my tears also. Realized nothing can be forgotten, women do not forget anything, they pretend. Excellent actors they are.

I forgave her. Mohiruda died two days after.

Tail raising saga

We were in class three then. Me and khudiram, my best pal of childhood days.
We used to live in Budge Budge, south 24-paragana district. Apart from us, there were several other monkeys, with real tails. Beer hanumans with black faces and savage grimaces.
The only dissimilarity between them and us was that we couldn’t swing and they didn’t have a taste for pickles. Otherwise, we were in the same boat. From papaya to kachi aam, nothing was safe under our jurisdiction. What we missed, they picked up, what they left we used to cherish. They were master in biting people; we were expert in that art. In addition, we also used to spit when cornered.
It was a love-hate relationship.
We never used to disturb them and were the very first to reach sukli’s aamtala when a band of swinging marauders used to leave the place, dropping a lot of mangoes and gaab (I am not sure how many people know what it is). And believe it or not they also used to accept us as one of their own. Ramanand’s Ramayana was a staple view for us and our families then and we were proud of being a banar sena legion.
The crack in our relationship developed when, sugrib, the second mightiest hanuman from the band, grimaced at khudiram’s mother and threatened to bite her. She was busy putting her clothes in the terrace when sugrib attacked her.
Khudiram was enraged and was quick to side change from ram-front to ravana. He was also impressed by indrajit’s skill no doubt.
He vowed to take revenge.
We got a chance soon. It was winter time and all the banar sena used to bask under the warm winter sun on the same terrace. Khudiram’s house was huge. Ancient jamindari building with a vast football-field like terrace and high concrete railing.
It was fall winter actually, must be around November. All the mattresses, blankets and leps were put under the sun after spending nine months in the womb of the huge tin-trunk that khudi’s father inherited from his father.
The warm clothes were smelling of naphthalene and sugrib was sitting just beside a thick blanket, hanging from the railing, touching the ground.
Meanwhile, khudi’s brother from his aunt side had arrived two-days back from Jaipur. He had appeared then for his class twelve examination. Was a regular body builder, and grabbed the opportunity to oil his flexed body under the warm sun. Right beside Nupurdi’s window. Where she was preparing for her madhyamik.
Seeing sugrib seated unassumingly, we, me and khudiram crawled under the blanket, made it sure to hide ourselves properly. Khudiram had his grandfather’s broken umbrella handle. Specifically broken to his size so that he can play hockey with that.
We took our position side by side, from the slight gap we could see sugrib’s tail hanging, touching the ground.
Since I was just sitting beside his tail, I was given the duty to carefully pull the tail under the blanket. I obliged with the broken curved dadur-chata-handle.
I did it so expertly, sugrib had no inkling what type of conspiracy is going on against him.
Khudi commanded me to hand over the tail end to him. He had marraowed the divider from his elder sister’s geometry box. He’s gonna push it deep into the black-face’s tail, afterall, this monkey insulted khudi’s mother.
Since I was also a part of the conspiracy and won’t let khudiram enjoy all the fun and also take credit, I pulled the tail hard before I hand it over to khudi.
Sugrib’s sudden jump was restricted by the strong joint-grip khudi and I were exercising.
Sugrip thumped hard into the railing again.
Meanwhile, khudi was so enraged by my betrayal that in the heated moment he forgot to prick the divider in to the tail. He grabbed the tail and began to twist it in every possible way. The ordeal went upto nearly 5 secends.
It went on until when sugrib thumped into the terrace hard and started looking for the culprit.
By then khudi had released the tail and we were as silent as dead. Our heart was beating fast under the hot blanket, just realizing what the mess we have done.
Sugrib searched here and there for a while. We were looking him from the little gap. We were also looking that khudi’s brother was massaging himself.
Well, sugrib also saw that.
Yes, the obvious happened. As is Indian law, the innocent got the punishment.
Sugrib slapped that fair-skinned innocent, bite him, bloodied him and would have finished him had not been for his shrieks and help cry, elders come for his rescue.
Sugrib was reluctant to pardon his tormentor and was giving a shit to the bamboo sticks that was falling on him at rapid succession. With each bite, he was tearing away a mouthful of flesh from that poor guy. Soon khudi’s brother collapsed. Sugrib, maybe feeling guilty (and not because of the beating) left him.
The monkey-bite victim spend the next fifteen days in hospital with three days in ICU.
It was not long that our tail raising saga was revealed.
And what happened to us, well, I am not gonna say that.

Secret

There was a time when we used to fear our parents like anything. I remember wetting my pant when my father scolded me once. That too when I was a student of class seven. Class seven, the most important age an adolescent boy undergoes. With algebra and trigonometry, I was diligently studying the art of a lady’s anatomy.
Was wondering why Arpita, who few days back also used to jump at me, scratch me, bloodied me when I used to pull her hair or pinch her, was avoiding me so craftfully.
Also I was realizing I am no more interested in her worldcup cards or new cycle. I don’t envy her if she gets an extra lozenge from Sarkar dadu.
I couldn’t remember her face anymore, she is changing so rapidly and worst but interesting, her chest is swelling as our maid chandana didi. I was wondering why she couldn’t jump with me at the natheder-pukur, or net talapia fry with her gamcha. Instead she used to get up from the pond quickly as soon as I used to jump. And was sure to cover her front portion with the same gamcha before she used to come out from the water.
After someday, she stopped coming altogether.
I was hurt, was bleeding why my best friend should not talk with me, why she should avoid me? What have I done?
I confronted her with the same question, she avoided with a peculiar smile.
I was very egoistic. Stopped talking with her.
My body was also changing like a wild fire. I never knew a girl other than Arpita. The tumors on her chest were driving me crazy. I had all kind of wild imagination. I was way behind the boys of my age. Didn’t know what is sex. But I was feeling in my entrails this untamable urge to explore her. What’s there that she is hiding so secretly. I wanna know. I am her best friend, I did not hide anything from her. She has no right to do the same to me.
But was I not hiding anything also?
Was I not hiding that my benign abdomen region is having its unusual hairy growth, didn’t I hide, my vital is growing at an unusual pace? Didn’t I hide I am getting the urge to burst out, I didn’t know how, but I needed to explode. I needed to relieve myself.
I also hide from her the heinous crime. After someday, when my classmate Amit educated me what is sex and how to m...., I imagined her in my acts.
Of course, though after long, I revealed her everything.
What is the need to hide things from your girlfriend whom you love more than your life and whom you are going to marry sometime next year?
Just as I know her all secrets now, she also knows mine. But that time it was KGB and CIA.
We are going to raise a family soon. And we are very eager about it.

Apathy

its a shame that the cultured babus of bengal are so reluctunt to pay respect to two doyens of its literature. shibram chakraborty and syed mujtaba ali. its not only the apathy of modern day half-baked parents that they hand over to their kids latest volume of harry potter instead of a set of shibram or satyajit. thakurmar jhuli...papa, eta abar ki crap? mamma, you promised to give me harry's goblet of fire. jadi na dao, tahole aami pizzahut e jabo naa. i swear. horri bol. i am not acting snotty by saying children should not read rowling, but the pain is with the passage of time, our children has developed the tendency of thinking that if they read bengali, they would be a fallen race. and that tendency is inflicted to them by their parents...frankly speaking who were never a book lover. otherwise, how can they forget satyajit, shibram. how can they forget syed mujtaba, who taught bengalis how to write a travelogue, rabindranath's russiar chithi was never a great writing to know russia. its too intellectual. but if we read syed's deshe videshe, we can catch the exact nerve of an afghan. giant child, as described by syed sir. did anybody wrote a travelogue like syed with such humour? i bet. also, if we read mujtaba ali's work we realise how much the man loved his country, its culture. some royal host, serving him a plateful of exquisite biryani, asked him, "so what do you think is the best dish in this world?" the host was taken aback to know that it was bhapa padmar elish and garam bhaat. where do we get that indianness in any of our indian writers' work. who says the more educated the man is, the more complex is his writings. is he more educated than mujtaba? a great scholar who went to germany to study, was the guest of afghan king to teach in kabul university? his marksheet was written by rabindranath himself! nobody had that privilege i believe. what do we say about satyajit, is anybody's writing as sweet, as charming, as simple and as informative as satyajit's? can anybody play with words like shibram did? my stomach still aches when i sit with his works. he never refuses to amaze me. with every reading, his stories get newer, refresher. we have got streets named after alien ho-chi-minh, lenin, kankaria, alimuddin, s n banerjee, not to mention about gandhi, vivekananda and lot more. but no road dedicated to shibram, syed mujtaba. of course satyajit has, but i wonder what would have happened if his pather pachali did not get aclaim? we cry when america invades iraq, insults vietnam, shouts at china or north korea, our heart goes shramiker rokte laal. but what about our own genius' plight? when will the dhoti-claded jokers look into their plight? if buddhababu goes to vietnam and ask a shramik bhai where is bengal, i bet he would point towards a crater in the moon. when will these self-poisoned ignorants wake up and pay respect to their own culture? i mean without being a culture-vulture, true tribute to the genius.

Act of betrayal

I will not forgive you suparna, ja nachale amay.
i remember bathing with clinic plus shampoo everyday, just to impress you with my shining hair. so much so that after a year or so, my scalps started smiling at me through the mirror. i could see the shine, the other way round.
than began the regime of hair oils.
i feel guilty now remembering how i used to steal my sister's keokarpin and mehendi.
i remember i even administered cow-shit. just to make sure, when you caress my hairs after marriage 5 years later, your hands don't slip.
i remember, how i used to stand in front of your school gate missing my classes. just to catch a glimpse of you, what i got? i was bared from my exams because of the poor percentages. in this matter i wont forgive arijit. that jealous dog didnt give me proxy. but always assured me that he was regularly giving. bastard.
i will never forgive arijit, because he never did his duty and despite knowing that i am after your trail, he proposed you.
and you, bewafa, noded to that clown's tune. you got married a month ago. f***...anyway you are doing so day in and day out. actually night in and night out.
my bronchiles pain, chranials ache and adam's apple dry up when i see you now.
my love was platonic. i never looked at your chest when i used to talk to you. i looked there when you were looking otherside.
but that day i couldn't resist looking at your once everest. they have turned into hillocks.
hai hai, age chilo lichu, ekhon holo aam.
see how roughly that bastard has treated your assets.
i cannot sleep at night, when i imagine that gobblin arijit is in wonderland now.
i will not forgive you suparna, never never, never in this life.

Catching a prawn

Ever hooked a prawn by a fishing line?
For those who has some kind of experience how it is done, i salute. cause they have enjoyed a lifetime experience.
and for those who did not, believe me, it is one of the most gruelling test of patience and steadiness that is known to mankind.
firstly the water should be fast flowing (ideal is a canal) and you have to sit with a really long string. you have to let go the prawn as much as it wants, but the tragedy is you don't have the liberty to pull the string back like you pull a fish or crab.
a prawn's mouth is extremely delicate and the body is quite heavy.
the fisherman needs to pull the string one centimetre at a time. at the same time with his mastery he has to tire the insect.
the challenge is when you pull the fish up into the air. guess what you do then. you have to sit right atop the canal on a poll or a bridge. you have to draw the insect in your basket.
that's a trick.
since i did not know it, i never catched one.
please somebody tell me one, so that next time i can break the ten-year old jinx of my fishing a prawn.