Kakima

Beauty lies in everything; in each thing that bears an honest intention. A delusion is beautiful too, if it’s not veiled under a mask proclaiming it to be true. By the way, her smile was not a deception, or something which you can comment of being delusive in order to earn something. She had a lovely smile; a smile not assayed with intentions. It was of a kind which can easily start to flow in ocean of your sub-consciousness. But this smile was not to live forever. I am talking of an old lady whom I used to see each day on my way to office. She indeed had a beautiful smile. She was of age not less than sixty.

She had grown too weak to walk. A slightly bent stick accompanied her wherever she tried to go. With each footstep she took her stick made one step more, making her difficult to walk. I often found her sitting among the crowd near temple and sometimes around the local masjid too. While sitting she painfully kept her right hand forward, while rest of her body trembled to balance her. Her trembling hands begged before the passersby, who I am sure never walked passed without giving her something if they saw her smile. I happened to be one among such people who gave away bits from the pocket to her. She was happy to accept everything, even if someone walked away giving nothing.

The most interesting thing about this locality where the lady lived is that it has a temple to one side and masjid at the other, and in between them there is a roundabout, called chowk in the local language here, where stands a giant statue of Tagore. The name of this chowk is Kutumbakam Chowk. The meaning this name holds is truly signified with the ambience here, but with a difference.

What was this old lady’s name, from where did she come, if she had a home or not; none among us knew enough about her to answer these questions. What we knew about her is that she was a beggar. She could be spotted around the chowk easily, either with some of your footsteps extra towards the temple or may be with some footsteps less around the masjid. But why would someone lookout for a beggar?

***

One day while I was returning from office, I stopped at Rajju’s shop. The taste of betel that he prepares savors inside mouth till eternity. He is the best paanwala in this locality.

While Rajju was preparing my paan, a typical Banarsi betel with some of his secret spices, a conversation advancing in a group of middle aged gentlemen caught my attention. Feasting paan in their mouths, each one of them passed on their opinions, one after another. With some little patience and focus on their words, I figured out partially what was the burning topic about. I am still new to this place, and my Bengali has not improved much. So I thought of getting it confirmed from Rajju. With a grin Rajju confirmed that I figured out the topic right. They were discussing from which side of chowk the old lady belonged.

“But why are they keen to know this Rajju? Do they even know her name?” I questioned Rajju.

Rajju grinned again.

“If they knew her name, then why this discussion would have popped up? They don’t know anything. But it seems they will figure out everything tonight.” Asserted Rajju.

“Heat... See the heat the discussion has gone into. She is from the other side dada.” Replied Rajju. His hands gestured that she was not from our side. With ours, he meant his side where I happened to be too.

“Arey moshai, tumi dekhe chilen? Oi haathe naam ta?” One of the gentleman shouted bringing some evidence into play. He said that he had seen a name etched on her arm, and it was in Farsi. So she must be from the other side, everyone concluded.

Rajju noticed that I was riveted in the discussion. Offering me my paan he said, “I have seen her around temple most of the times. She even wears a laal dhaga on her left hand. So intermittently my instinct says she is not from that side. She is from ours.”

I took the paan, and preferred not to utter anything.

Rajju questioned me, “Which side do you think she belongs to dada bhai?”

Crunching the ingredients in paan inside my mouth, I smiled and replied, “I really don’t know Rajju, neither I am interested to know.”

As I strolled down towards my home, I kept thinking why people were so keen to know about her. There were so many beggars in this area. My keenness strengthened towards the lady too. Not to know from which side she belonged, but to know why would out of sudden people would want to discuss about her.

***

Saleem’s dhaba is known for the Chicken Badshahi that he cooks. The dhaba is center for partying for bachelors like me, who have limited earning. Within one hundred rupees you can have a grand meal here, and a glass of buttermilk. Last Sunday I went there for dinner. I was surprised to see people were discussing about the same lady there too.

“She says she is saving money for a journey. I really don’t know where she wants to go.” One of the guy claimed.

“May be she is saving money for going someplace where she has her relatives, or may be her son lives there.” Some other guy replied.

“Don’t make this more dramatic. Moreover what kind of saving is this, saving money by begging?” The first guy replied back.

“These are just her tactics dada, you don’t know beggars? They weave stories so that you offer them money.”  Saleem interrupted them while serving food on their table.

“Saleem da!” I called him to order my food.

After he took the order, I politely asked, “Saleem da, why everyone is discussing about that old lady?”

“Don’t you know dada? That old lady has saved a lot of money, just by begging. We are seeing her here for years now. She says she needs money for her journey, and begs in front of all people.”

“What journey?” I asked.

“No one knows what journey she talks about. She herself never answers this question. She just smiles, and says you have enough time to know. But she must hurry… Umm yes, something like that.” Replied Saleem recollecting the answers from the old lady that he remembered.

“I see…” This was all that I could say.

“Just wait for a moment dada, I will be back with your food.” Saleem replied.

“Ah. Just wait. How do you know she has saved a lot of money?” I quickly questioned him.

“Everyone says that. It’s said that she has been saving money in a trust for last one year.”

“Saleem! Oh Saleem!” Someone called Saleem at the counter for billing.

“Aschi dada, ektu darao.” Saleem hurried towards the counter.

Things started to shape in my mind. So it was about money. It became clear to me that people were focused about the money she had saved. And as she did all of this by begging, it was pricking their eyes.

I started to talk to myself. Yes begging is not good, but what else could that old lady do? She was not even able to stand properly. She might have been left alone in this world, no one to look after her, and in this condition what would a person resort to for living? Her begging for living was justified before me. I did not care about what she was saving for. Everyone saves money. Even I save money from my salary. Is that weird?

***

On Monday morning when I reached the chowk, I looked for the old lady. I spotted her quickly. She was there, at the stairs of the temple. Her left hand was open forward, and her head was facing up towards the passersby. I came to her, leaned closer and gave her a ten rupees note. Her wrinkled face carried a sober smile. Just before I was to leave, my eyes fixated at her feet. Her feet wore black rubber shoes with several holes on them. I felt very bad. I leaned back, took out a hundred rupees note from my purse and offered on her palm. Her smile stayed the same.

While returning from office that day, I stopped at Rajju’s. I was amazed to find that there were no wise men around the shop. This was very unlikely to what I had been seeing here for several weeks. I observed that Rajju was himself very silent that night.

“What happened, I don’t find any heating discussion going on around your shop tonight. That’s very strange Rajju.”

“She died dada bhai.” Said Rajju ruefully.

“Who?”

“Kakima died. She died today. She was here just few feet beside my shop. She was standing here, but then suddenly collapsed. Hemorrhage may be…”

“That old lady?” I questioned.

“Yes” Rajju replied.

It was for the first time that I heard someone calling her ‘Kakima’. You call your aunt as Kakima here. I didn’t know what to speak then. I stayed silent before Rajju, with my mood for paan almost spoiled.

“We don’t know what happened to her next. How her funeral was performed; was she buried, or was she burnt. People from a trust company came and took her body away with them.”

Rajju leaned forward at the counter to hand over the paan to me, and just then he saw that his shoes on the ground were disheveled over one another.

“Shit” Rajju uttered and came down from the shop counter to put them properly.

“Why, what happened Rajju. They are just shoes.” I asked.

“This is a bad omen dada. Shoes must not stay disheveled and tossed over one another. It brings unintended journey for you. I am a poor guy. I don’t want any of this.”

“I know you will not believe in these superstitions. But sometimes they turn out to be true. Then why take a risk of not following them.” Rajju added.

“Hmm…” I sighed.

“Well Rajju, do you know the address of that trust you were talking about. That one which took Kakima with them?” I questioned Rajju.

“Oh yes I know.”

I took the address from Rajju. It was not very far from our locality. I decided of going there the next day. The impact on me on having heard the demise of Kakima was huge. That lady was of an age close to that of my grandmother’s. But like everyone said, I also began to recall her as Kakima. It felt so natural to address her as Kakima. The old lady got a name, but only after she was no more. But this name was not enough to unveil that to which side of the Kutumbakam Chowk she belonged.

***

I went to the charitable trust the other day. I tried to inquire about Kakima there. In mid of all events that were happening one after another around me,  somewhere I also became keen like Rajju to know how her funeral was performed. People at the Trust were very strict with their principles. They completely declined on sharing any information on Kakima. However, they told me that she had already made provisions for herself in her life, and she had been granting money to this trust for the same. I was told that I must not worry about what happened to her after her death. Everything was performed as she had wanted. They even warned me that if I tried to sneak more information on this from them then they own the right to call legal actions against me. They politely took me out from their office.

Just before I was to step out from main gates, my eyes caught hold of a pair of shoes, tossed over one another on a shoe rack. I stopped there, my eyes fixated on those shoes. Those shoes belonged to Kakima. These were her black rubber shoes with several holes on them. Having witnessed those disheveled and tossed shoes I recalled what Rajju had said to me the previous night. He had said that shoes must not stay like this. It is a bad omen. It brings unintended journey for you.

Kakima had died. She indeed left for a journey. But she intended this journey, and even planned everything for it. At once her smile on her wrinkled face came in front of my eyes. I realized that I must not know how her funeral was performed. No one should know how her funeral was performed. We must not know to which side of the Kutumbakam Chowk she belonged. What we must know is that she had left for the journey… the journey for which she had been begging and saving. Each one of us is bound to go on this journey one day, despite of the fact that from which side of the chowk we belong.

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Housemaid

There is stillness in her eyes. She rarely looks at us, keeps herself busy in her work, but I steal away the moment to look into her eyes. Her eyes are big, but they look pale. The dark complexion with emotions too less, makes her face look heavy. I always doubt if she ever smiles. I didn’t see her smile until that day. I have been told that she is here with the family ever since they came to this newly built house. The house is eleven years old now. And I wonder how could she live with a family which is not hers. Yes, she only works here. She lives with this family and does all the household work. She prepares food for the family. My landlady lately offered me to have dinner every night with them at a nominal charge, which evidently I accepted. So I get chances to witness the enigma that the dark lady keeps within herself. Though I don’t comment on the food much, but I have sensed that she stays attentive to know how the food was. Every artist expects a feedback, if not from others then from his or her own self. She is an artist too. Probably she has mastered the art of cooking, washing clothes and cleaning floors from the ground floor to the second floor in this house. Sometimes I feel so awkward to tell my landlady that my room needs cleaning. This would make the dark lady come down and clean my room too. Shouldn’t I be cleaning the room myself? It’s a 10x10 room only by the way.

That day was shocking for me. She came with a packet of sweets as I was about to leave for my office . "It’s my wedding anniversary", she smiled this time. I wished her, and she smiled again. I couldn’t stop myself from asking, "I never met your husband, where is he?"

“You have probably seen him. He stays here, in this house. It’s just that he does not regard me as his wife, and that is why you were not able to know.” She smiled for the last time, and then she turned and walked away. 

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Eternal sunshine of an introvert mind

In some part of the world there is a kingdom where nature basks in glory, where people still trust each other, where love thrives and deception has not stepped in. There lives a kid who spends his evening waiting for the princess to arrive in woods. As usual, he is there sitting on the log, his head dipped down. The tattered brown robe on his body is not enough to defend from the chill that sets in at night. It’s been more than an hour, but there is no sign of restlessness in kid. He knows she is going to come. Shades of trees are stretching with the sun going down. Within minutes the sun will be hidden behind the blue mountains. Cold wind from the west has started to blow. Grazing leaves on the forest floor has started to unsettle the calm.

…and the scene keeps building inside my head while chatter continues in cubicles around me. I don’t wish to break myself off from the imaginary build up projected on the screen of my mind, even when the chatter starts to dip into my own cubicle. But who cares what I want. I don’t want to get into conversations unnecessarily. Yes, I can enact to be a good speaker. But why does someone has to push me for it? The need of the hour drags me off from my comfort zone, and I temporarily pause all the drama inside my head. Damn! I feel pity for my characters who turn jobless while I am conversing with someone. I really enjoy being me.

In between imports of code and its reuses at office, I miss those days when I used to sit back and do nothing. Just do nothing for hours, and stay mused in thoughts; sometimes dark, sometimes illuminated. Now I crave to have some moments for myself where in them I would be alone. I would contemplate on what I did, I would plan what I will do.

As the office hours dissolve, once again I start to frame the story. The projection on the screen of my mind starts. I try to cut off from distractions as far as I can to ensure I have clear and crisp reception of my characters at play. I start to connect the pieces again and the story resumes.

Wolves have started to howl. The sun has set behind the blue mountains. The kid is afraid, he must return home now. His mom would be waiting. But the princess hasn't come yet. He loves his mom more. So he must return now. He stands up, and start to move with his face numb and his heart heavy. He won’t let the tears come. His mom will never wish to see him distressed, he knows. ‘Love is an illusion; I won’t be deluded by promises and die freezing here in woods’. As he was returning, a golden deer came running and stopped beside him. He turns to see the golden deer liberating godly rays. His surprised eyes start to roam on the shining body of the deer. And then he notices there is a letter lying by the forelegs of the deer. He picks up the letter, and unfolds it. The letter reads: ‘Tomorrow at dusk. Wait for me. I shall be there. Love. Only yours…’
Marks of her lipstick on the letter pouts and blows a kiss towards him.

Kid’s smile after reading the letter has taken over me too. His revitalized trust gives me strength for the coming day. I tuck into bed for sleep now. The new day will bring a different story, for me too and for my characters as well. 

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BARKHA

“Pearls of my eyes, today I seek over again to solace you. Be still; I won’t let you sneak out through ages of love homed in my eyes.
Be gentle; ease me off to sleep, for I am awake since you left me. I am seized in the wait endless, staring forever at the skies.”

Mr. Partho Ghosh mumbled these words, his voice heavy, and eyes strained from insomnia. In between closing and reopening of his eye lids, he stared at the night sky through the open window close to his squealing bed. Stars displeased him.
He wanted sleep to take over him, but she had been meanest and rudest to him lately. This sixty two year old man, with his mind mused in some belonging he cared to keep alive forever, lived in a small one bedroom flat alone. His flat has a leaky roof and it damps after rain. People in general would hate that, but Partho loves it. He loves rain.

I watch Partho every time. I wish if I could help him out. But I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

II

Mr. Partho was a poet, not by profession but yes he was very much passionate about it. His wife used to be the agonist in all of his story telling poetry. Things haven’t changed even today.

“Hello Mr. Partho, how are you doing?”, greeted Mr. Kashyap at the grocery store.

Mr. Kashyap was the fresher for the job from which Mr. Partho retired. Mr. Partho never accepted his promotion. He retired from the post which he had when he joined the company. He knew promotion brings ‘transfer’, and he never wanted to leave his home and his wife. He wanted to be in this town for ever and ever. Because it was here in this town where he met her for the first time.

“I am fine Babu Saheb, just the mornings have been a bit cruel to me. Nights are also no different”, replied Mr. Partho.

“I suppose you are not getting sleep properly. Your eyes tell the whole story.”

“I am sure they do, but I tell you that the sweet and memorable part of the story they don’t tell, and you will never know of it”, replied Mr. Partho.

“I see. But I suggest you that at this age you must not live alone. Moreover your health has been consistently declining.”

“What should I do then? Get myself registered at Briddhashram? I mean what you call as Old Aged Home? Hmm?”, questioned Mr. Partho stiffly.

“No no. I didn’t mean that. I mean you should invite your relative at your place or go to live at theirs sometime.”, replied Mr. Kashyap.

“Hehehe. No thank you. I have only one relative, and she visits me every year. I think that time of year has already arrived.”, and with this Mr. Partho walked away.

Mr. Kashyap kept trying to figure out what Mr. Partho kept mumbling as he passed across him.

Pains of Partho weaken me. I feel trembled. Even though I know what the old man wants but I can do nothing. After all I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

III

I can see him from here, Mr. Partho has resumed with his poetry. Perhaps his diary of poetry can turn out to be the best seller if published, but Mr. Partho would never want to publish them.

“The chill, now the wind has contained. Kissing my neck with the breeze some sweet some sour. And in this breeze I…”,

Mr. Partho was gumming these words but then stopped as came the knock on his door. Mr. Partho walked towards the door. And the knock came for the second time.

As the door got opened, there she was holding a dishware; perhaps she had cooked something special and thought of sharing with Mr. Partho.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes. Please do come in Mrs. Dutta.”

Mrs. Dutta was Mr. Partho’s neighbor and his only friend. She was a year older than Mr. Partho.

“I know it’s a special day for you. I made something on this occasion. Wouldn’t you like to taste it?” asked Mrs. Dutta.

“Why not Mrs. Dutta. Its 11^th of August. Even if you ask me for poison, then I am ready to try that too on this day.”, said Mr. Partho laughingly.

“Why would I ask something like that Partho. Do you think I am mad? It’s your wife’s birthday. I have made a cake for you.”, replied Mrs. Dutta.

“Do you know Mrs. Dutta, I went to grocery store today. I did buy the ingredients. But when I started the work in my kitchen, I couldn’t put together all what Barkha used to do for preparing the cake. She used to cook so well, the vanilla puffed cake was her specialty. She never explained me how she used to make those lovely cakes. Neither did I care to learn. I used to think my wife will never leave me. She will stick to me till my breath will last.”

Mr. Partho got carried away. His eyes moist, and voice got heavy as he spoke his words. Silence prevailed in the room, and it seemed as if it’s going to last forever.

“Don’t say like that Partho. She never left you. It’s all destiny. God loved Barkha so much. And that’s why he…”

“Don’t you think I loved her too? I loved her more than God. She should have stayed here with me. Always. Forever.”, cried Mr. Partho, almost on the verge of breaking down he was.

Silence existed for few more moments. But it ended as Mrs. Dutta tried to fill the void.

“Now come on. Lets cut the cake. Its Barkha’s birthday and you are not going to disappoint her. She was a lovely wife. You must not sadden her by saddening yourself like this. Nature and its laws, we can’t go against it. Don’t you think so Partho?”

 “No Mrs. Dutta. I won’t cut the cake. I won’t celebrate until she gets back here. I want to get drenched with her caresses of love”, said Mr. Partho.

“Have you gone mad Partho? How can she come now?”, questioned Mrs. Dutta with surprisal.  

“You don’t know Mrs. Dutta. I have been waiting endlessly for her arrival. I have been calling out her name, looking at the skies all day and night”.

As came more of his words, the more he started to turn weak. It seemed as if he is going to fall down. But then Mrs. Dutta helped him to settle on the chair.

“Oh Partho. Please be seated. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry”

“Barkha!”, yelled Mr. Partho.

IV

Two hours swept on the clock. Mrs Dutta had left. And Mr. Partho was still on the chair, baffled and dejected. Suddenly tube light in the room flickered. It started with the lightening in the sky. As came the cracking of thunder in the sky, Mr. Partho woke up from his trance. He came to the window and glanced at the sky. A gush of adrenalin rushed inside his veins. Rushing outside of his flat, forgetting of the locks that he left open, he hurried towards the lawn.

It had started raining. As drops of rain touched his forehead, it seemed to him as if he got hold of his departed love from his life once again. Memories that his old eyes had preserved afresh, seemed to revive into existence. Pellets of rain, skinned over love and compassion from heaven solaced him.

Moving by the kitchen window of Mrs. Dutta’s house, he cried her name.

“Mrs. Dutta. Oh Mrs. Dutta. Come out and see. Barkha has arrived.”

 ...

As I told you before, I watch Mr. Partho always. I watch him closely all days and nights. But I am devoid of any emotions now. God turned me like this. Reasons are unexplainable that why he did so. However, I know what Mr. Partho wants. Every wife knows what his husband wants. He wants me back in his life. But how can I? I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I am… (sighs)
I was Barkha Ghosh, wife of an angel in reality, Mr. Partho Ghosh.

Image Courtesy: Google Images Search

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Sneaky Tales: The Storm

The wind was gravely chilling. I felt like moving no more. Wrecked at my knees, short of air in my lungs, I was drawing myself into state of Hypothermia. I remember the stress I exerted to bow down and sit, rest for a while under an icy shed. The storm had wiped out everything from my vision. Sands were overrated. Just like tiny little rocks. It was only here where I built our castle. Sands were smooth then, and lighter. In the blurred vision, only one figure was precise; a lonely girl in orange. Her bare feet had trailed a name. Shipra!

Her first glimpse asserted I could meet someone; someone who would be like me. I had always guessed chances of that happening were diminished. And so were they. The storm was needed to uncover the true face. And I was struck in middle of that storm. How long the icy shed will sustain standing, I will calculate with number of days left in my life, or may be hours. My skin which was ripped out weren't bleeding. A part of storm had entered inside me. Everything was freezing; outside me, and inside me.

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The Envelope

I was sleeping softly. My mom had dozed me off with one of her godly stories. I don’t remember how far I listened. I just remember what I dreamt of next. A wonderland, with supreme divinity all around; luscious petals and droplets covering their surfaces, were showering on my face. I can still smell that beauty. The light around suddenly became so bright that I had to close my eyes with my tiny little palms, but this didn’t cease my smile. Someone’s warm hand I felt which tried to get hold of my hands. I opened my eyes, offering him my both palms. His face hid the bright light coming from behind; I couldn’t see his face.
“Are you God?” I asked.
“I am a part of you”, came the reply, with depth in his voice.
“I need you” I remember what I had asked.
“And so do I”, his voice asserted.
“I am in search of my baby sister. My mom won’t let me go out and find her. Can you find her for me?” I questioned him.
I don’t remember what he said. I guess he didn’t say anything. I just saw the bright light fainting. A circular icy drop seemed to roll off from above, and landed on my nose. The drop sprinkled, I smiled. I knew he would help me.

…

I am 21 years old now, still the single child to my parents. Those intense and realistic dreams still incur persistently. I live them as if they are real, but in between I need to wake up. My mom continues to have faith in God. And she considers me his favorite child.

…

I spent my childhood as per the story I wrote for myself. I was led by my own creation of mind, something that I weaved out from my dreamland and believed them to be real. My mom knew that I wanted a sister. I often used to hold her by her hands and run towards TV whenever a cute little baby was there.
“Mom! When will my sister come?” I asked innocently.
“Arey ayegi beta”, she solaced me. She explained me again, that I was God’s favorite child and he had already witnessed my wish.
“He is going to surprise you soon son”, she jolted my head, and threw a smile. And then there was no limit to my happiness.

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Stepping Stones

It rained yesterday here in Durgapur. Blisters that prevailed due to consistent heat and coagulated inflictions tried to wash themselves away. It felt soothing. Sometimes roaring harsh wind uplifts you the best. Hiving in closeness, playing romance on guitar is not always the obvious solution for repose. Hard Rock does play an important role wherever the former lags behind. I realized it yesterday. It felt soothing.

I am in third year of my B-Tech course now. Two days ago, I became a pre-final year student. And with this, more indulgent sprouts of anxiety and sense of responsibilities have started taking place in my mind and heart. Keeping the anxiety till the sphere of brain is acceptable. Its plunderage on walls of the heart is not. And other than this, I have been continuously grooming myself, trying to bring out the most uncommon in me, keeping the rest common ones in me intact and stabilized.

I have been with my roommate since first year. Persistent problems couldn’t make it possible this year and I will be having a new roommate now when the semester starts after the break. Sort of predicament I was in, because I build up closeness and intimacy quickly and much strongly. Everybody doesn’t do so; but I do. Consequently I alienate myself. After all I neither own the lock, nor the key. I am just a user till my authenticity as a user is carried over by the programmer. My scope and lifetime is not controlled by myself. Situations and needs dictate over this.

While returning from my Java class yesterday, still then it was raining, I noticed streams of dust, coagulated together, floating on the inundated silent road. I thought, how long are they going to last together? How long will they continue to be loyal and intimate for each other? Situations and needs dictate over this, I contemplated. Even though it’s pinning, I tried to accept it as soothing. 

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