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Cursed
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Cycle of Cliches Ode to Scientific Socialism!
Ode to Scientific Socialism!Bomb blasts make corpses of people. That’s what they exactly make, nothing more, nothing less. Bomb blasts make corpses of the people who live after them. Nothing less, nothing more. Bomb blasts are not committed by any other animals, because other animals suffer, toil and struggle for survival. They don’t care much about who the victor is and who the victim. That’s why they grow without complaint, live full until they die.Bomb blasts are by the dead, of the dead, for the dead. Basically, bomb blasts are democratic – they ensure the right to bring lives to surprising ends suddenly without caring for caste, creed, religion, language, complaints, desires, wishes, dreams, vision and mission. Bomb blasts are the season of Boxonto – they usher in new buds of hope for those who live by them. Bomb blasts are the best odes to Scientific Socialism.The bomb blasts in Guwahati and elsewhere in the state on the bright, sunny day of 30th October 2008 made a
Cycle of Cliches Worldly Wise
Worldly WiseOne morning, when Nishant was barely three months old, Papa and Mummy came to see him. Jaanvi opened the door to them, but was in a fix whether to let them in. Ma called them in. She not only called them in, but offered them to sit and also brought Nishant to them. Papa held Nishant in his hands for a while and then gave him to Mummy. The next moment, both of them were in tears, crying like children.Jaanvi was sulking within. Those tears didn’t mean anything to her. She was living in a strange, robotic world. A world which looked perfectly normal from outside, but whose insides burnt like hell every moment. She waited for Papa and Mummy’s collective weeping to come to an end and their tears to dry up, while Ma excused herself to the kitchen to make tea for them.When Papa and Mummy’s sobs mellowed down they kept looking at Jaanvi. Perhaps in anticipation that she would say something. She didn’t. Rather, she didn’t want to. Mummy’s curse had muted her.Ma enter
Cycle of Cliches Distant Realities
Distant RealitiesThere’s nothing uncomfortable about the navy blue suit. It’s tailor-made unlike the other ones purchased earlier from online stores or from ready-made showrooms. The white two-ply twill cotton shirt with a double fused semi cutaway collar, the French cufflinks, the black Oxford shoes, belt, wallet and the wrist-watch strap can’t have complemented the suit better. I like the distinct tapping of my shoe-soles on the spotlessly clean chequerboard floor with every step I take through the corridor.Level 5 Function Room at the Southbank Centre. London. Dream destination!The black bow-tie is a bit of an annoyance though. Never wore a bow-tie before. Never needed to. Never attended an English dinner before either. Never needed to. I can bear the bow-tie though. The company of people will make good for any trivial annoyance.Right on time. Half five it is. It’s a Carrera Calibre 5 Automatic by Tag Heur. The most expensive one from my collection. I was pleasantly
Cycle of Cliches Beyond Binaries
Beyond BinariesThe ninth and the tenth days have been the busiest in terms of visitors. These were mostly repeat-visitors, who were doing a little more than paying just courtesy visits. Relatives, friends, and Ma’s close aides in her office. So, whatever means I tried to keep myself aloof, I had to come out more often than the previous three days. Thankfully, the what-happened-to-her questions had gone down significantly by then. These visitors wanted to help us in whatever way possible. My friend Rajib wanted to take an entire week off from work, but I said it would be fine if he made himself available on the eleventh and the twelfth days. I think he didn’t quite like the idea. What was he up to? Be by my side, like Ranjita was by Jahnobi’s. It would be rude to tell him or for that matter, anybody of those visitor, that they could be of greatest help to me, only if they let me be on my own.I missed Biswa though. He is in a remote village in the bordering areas of Rajasthan
Cycle of Cliches Like a Free Bird
Like a Free BirdAt the door, there’s this tall, lanky fellow, with a week-old stubble on a pitifully undernourished jawline and a face with unusually white patches of skin standing with a tilt to his right. He has an aluminium forearm clutch in his right hand and he is emitting a strong stench of inflammable oil, a stench which is common among city bus drivers and conductors, diesel engine technicians working with the Railways or in the car-repair workshops. For me, it has really been hard to recognize people in the neighbourhood, because in this colony, people keep moving in and out. In the last eight years, every time I came for my vacations, I met at least one new family in the immediate neighbourhood, or came to know about at least one, who had moved to some other part of the city or to some other part of the country. The biggest bluff that our movies show is that the characters don’t recognize other characters when they wear a disguise. We usually recognize people’s eyes
Cycle of Cliches Missed Turns
Missed TurnsNineteen days ago, I was greeted here, in the same airport, with the concerned and impatient voice of Jahnobi over the phone, “Have you reached?” Junali’s full and wide smile and the whiskey-dipped lines written for her transformed into a maze of eerily quiet corridors in in the main building of Gauhati Medical College Hospital. Every minute counted during my hunt for the single occupancy cabin where my mother was admitted. Even after a running-around for about ten minutes, following the directions of the old man sitting at the May I Help You counter, I was, kind of, lost in the maze of alleys, corridors, staircases and closed rooms in that mammoth building. “Yeah, reached, but kind of lost. Where’s the cabin?” I asked her. I wasn’t sure whether Jahnobi expected an assurance of my presence, or if she was just reminding me of the urgency – every moment can be the last moment“Just ask someone which is Ruplekha Baideu’s room. People know that she’s here.” I could
Cycle of Cliches Touchdown
TouchdownWe will have our respective touchdowns today – Jahnobi at 6:30 PM British Standard Time at Gatwick, and I at 6:30PM IST in Pune. Nineteen days have elapsed since I am away from my workplace (you may read Karmabhumi). I have no clue how my team members are performing their daily rituals of chanting “Thank you for calling…”, “I understand your concern, however…”, “the options that I can give you are…”, “I apologize for the inconvenience…” to appease a bunch of unknown, unseen, fatally wronged, over-promised and under-delivered voices and names on the other hemisphere of the world, trying their guts out to get the best possible solutions to their issues. It’s not easy, going through these iterative bouts of supervising all these computer-screen-facing, headsets-clad, wretched souls engaged in those precarious rituals. It sucks the blood out of the brains and when I return to my flat in the morning, all I desire is a sound, undisturbed, dreamless sleep. When I wake up in
Cycle of Cliches Songs and Stories
Songs and StoriesI write from a cremetorium and I swear by my origins that this story conforms to the unwavering loyalty to clichés.I am aware that the cremetorium is the weirdest of places to write from, for that matter, anything, let alone a story, but I can’t be tardier than what I have been all this while.Eighteen years is a freakin', long time to stay on one story, isn’t it? I wish tardiness wasn’t in the list of my genetic inheritance.Here, at the cremetorium I become the famous singer who crooned his best number sitting by the bier of his dead sister. It wasn’t just a dirge for his sister, but a delicate and gradual unveiling of a story. A story of drawing rainbows, of playing under the sun, of a heart burning in sorrow and another entranced by indelible moments of joy. The famous singer’s song was his story.My story, by the way, is my song.And the tapping on this laptop keyboard is my beat. With each tap, I see the song shaping up as the dirge for the event.
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