deletion of my last post

I know I owe you an apology for deleting the last post (and your comments with that). I won’t be astonished if you decide not to come on my blog anymore. I know it was rather insulting.

But please give an opportunity to defend myself. I was on the seventh heaven Monday before getting the call from mother.

It was a wonderful flight. The Spicejet flight left Calcutta sharp at 2:40 pm and soon I was sailing pass the clouds. Giant clouds, whiter than snow. More beautiful than the most beautiful thing on earth. Standing tall as huge snowy mountains, without giving a damn to us. Some were so huge and majestic that our pilot joked, “We were supposed to fly straight, but I fear Mount Everest is blocking our route.” He said the cloud is full of thunderbolts and we will be fried instantly if we dare enter it.

And the spicejet chicks were the best examples of Indian hotties. Man, it was my best flight till date. I will never forget it.

But every good thing should have an end. So when I came down from my heaven and entered Bangalore airport, all things went awry. For example, I didn’t get my bag for half-an-hour. But I didn’t panic, I didn’t even tried to find it out. Because I was not the only one affected. There were five six bongs too who had lost their baggage momentarily. I have full faith on the race. I know they will somehow find theirs, and thus will find mine too. I just have to stick with them. But that’s a different story, a very interesting one that I plan to write sometime.

But it was before the bag fiasco when I got a call from my mother. She is always anxious about her children. So much so that we have started taking her as granted. But not this time. Instead of asking how my journey was she thundered: Why you and your cronies are harassing that poor Sayantani?

“How do you know that? She complained to you or what? Anything is possible by that girl.”

“No…your sister told me. She in fact translated whatever you and your friends had to write about that poor girl. Weren’t you ashamed? How can you write such derogatory thing about a girl? Don’t you have a sister? What if somebody writes about her something like this?”

“I will probably kill him,” I was determined.

“Than why you have written all these things in your dirty blog?”

“Because first she is not my sister; second, I don’t have the moral courage to consider her my sister anytime before I am seventy and third, I am sure she doesn’t have any elder brother.”

“Shame on you.”

I knew she was losing the argument. So instead of logic, she was resorting to emotions. I was happy.

Soon she handed over the phone to my sister. She had just returned from the court. Instead of going for corporate law, she opted for criminal law so that she can hang, or at least, imprison for life all the men in this world.

She snatched the phone from mother. She didn’t shout. She never shouts. She is like phantom. Her voice is enough to chill your very bones.

“What have you written in your blog, you rascal.”

“That has got nothing to do with you. Mind your own business,” I hissed. Because I knew if I continue fighting for long and let her take control of the situation, I will be devastated. Offence is the best defence, they say.

“Of course it has got something to do with my job. You can be booked under penal code x, xx, xxx, xxxx, and xxx for sexual harassment, defamation, abusing freedom of speech and dishonoring a woman’s modesty.”

“You mean, if Sayantani complaints? But she is a good woman. She loves me as her own brother.”

“It’s not necessary that sayantani should complaint. Anybody can. On behalf of her. So to say on behalf of women as a whole. And you and that shuv will be spending fifteen years behind bars.”

“Oh…OK.”

“Just to add, Sayantani’s last comment was reason enough that she is considering to sue you.”

“oh…ok.” I hung up.



Then what. Soon after I entered the office, I logged on to blogger and deleted the post.

Sayantani doesn’t need to be my sister. I don’t want that too. She doesn’t need to be like my sister either. But if she has got even 1 percent of what my sister is made of, then…I would have to change my dress and address soon.

Indian jails are not that tech savvy. They don’t have internet connection. Just imagine, to save one post, you would have missed thousands of mine and shuv’s future posts.

Now tell me, would you still stay away from my blog?

Mother is ensuring that I always carry an antacid. People are treating me in such luxuries!! Man...

I am at home now. Yay Yay Yay...

No worries, no tension. Life can be so beautiful when you don't have to think about yourself and let your parents and friends take care of you. Yay Yay Yay...

Life is so short. Why can’t we keep aside all our ambitions, apprehensions, jealousy, caste, creed, and religion…cultures? And just live for each other…just as two human beings in need of each other, two human beings dependent on each other. Like a servant and a master at the same time…why can’t we live for the sake of love itself?

I love you.

missed call

The cab driver who came to pick me up this week is a funny guy, though he doesn’t realize it.

He doesn’t know a single word in Hindi and probably no idea what English is. He is a pure Kannadiga. Namma Bangaluroo types.

He is a kind of guy, who will piss you to no end, but you cannot hold your anger for long. For he is a pure-heart. A kind of guy who smiles even without a reason and takes life very casually.

Probably he is a new joiner and as such is very cautious as how he addresses us. His is the most mechanical “good afternoon sir” I have ever heard.

The rule is that when the driver comes to pick us up, he should come near the house and give a missed call. We are supposed to come and sit in the cab.

Start of the week, in Monday, it’s always a problem. Because you don’t know how many people are there in the pick up list and what time the cab would come and give a missed call.

But once you have been picked up, you know it very well about the pickup list and the timing of your cab. You get ready ten minutes before you get the missed call.

But since our driver this week is an extraordinary gentleman, he would give me at least three missed calls before he comes to my place. First one to tell me what time he would be coming, second to alert that he had started from the office to pick me up and the third to tell me he is just ten minutes away from my house and the final one to inform the cab is at the doorstep. I am supposed to call him back in the first two times. Once I didn’t call. Anxious he called me back to say, “Saar…cancelled?” I didn’t take a chance after that.

At least four hours before he picks me up, he would give me a missed call. I would return his call only to hear him say, “good morning saar. 2:45 awternoon.” Rather pissed that I need to call him for this bullshit and waste my precious one rupee, I always hung up saying a rather rude OK. Often forgetting he was the only person to greet me in the morning. And probably he is the only person who would address such a useless creature as “sir”.

Soon after ten minutes, he would call me. “sir…2:40 awternoon.” Since we both don’t understand each others’ language we would try to exchange minimum words. From my side it would be (in English): 2:40…not 2:45?

--2:45??? No 2:40 saar. 2:35…Ok 2:35--2:40 saar. 4 pickups. One cancel 2:50.

Now how you will deduce what this guy is saying.

Totally perplexed, I would want to make sure what time this guy would come in. I would say in Hindi, “What time exactly you will come in boss? Time…Time?”

He would laugh, “Hindi gottilla saar”. Which means he doesn’t know Hindi.

Now he would try to make me understand in his native language. Soon I had to say “Kannada gottilla boss.” Then both party would start laughing. At least, we understand this universal language.

Once I tried telling him he need not give me missed calls every day to repeat the same timing. That, even if he doesn’t inform me about the time, I would be ready by the same time he came yesterday. That way I can save my unnecessary call charges and also sleep a little more.

So after putting much restraint to my eloquence, I told him he need not give me missed calls before he comes. It went like this (again in English): Boss, no missed calls before 2:30.

He stopped his car and said something in Kannada that totally flew over my head. But I could gather something as an astonished “cancelled?”

--No…no cancellation…but…no missed calls…you come to this point…give me missed calls. Before that no missed calls.

His gestures told me he is suspecting my intellect. How you would know if I have come to your place, if I don’t give a missed call…he conveyed that with his language and gestures.

I also tried replying to him in the same way…but this time in my native language. "Khankir chele, ekhane asaar age leora missed call dibina. Shuorer baccha tor OK shunte giye amaar teen taka kharcha hoi.” (don’t give me missed calls before you come to the spot. I had to spend three rupees just to hear your stupid OK).

Perhaps he understood. Because he shook his head vigorously and said “Calcutta”. As is the case with all stupid non-bongs who know only three tortured words, he smiled, “aami tomake bhalobashe” (I love you). That was yesterday.

Today I didn’t get any missed call. And at three-o-clock when I didn’t get the usual one, I called the transport helpdesk.

The in-charge, with whom I have developed a good friendship in the two years of my job here, picked up the phone and wished me a nice holiday in Calcutta. “Convey my regards to your parents. Have a blast,” he said.

After trying to remain calm for a while, I returned his good wishes. “Thank you, I will.” I disconnected.