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Cycle of Cliches Sunset Dating
Sunset DatingThat every sunset brings a promise of a new dawn sounds like an overstatement, or perhaps Emerson forgot to add to a chosen few at the end of his famous saying. In the evening when Deuta was killed, somewhere in some jungle in Burma or in some small town in Bangladesh, the bosses of Mikhail Phukan, Samiran Kalita and Matlif Ahmed would have hailed them as the new heroes, as the true sons of the soil, because they had freed their Paradise of one apostate of their revolutionary decree. Five years down the line, per the growth model of The Organization, these three sons of the soil would have either returned to the mainstream or got encountered by the Joint Forces. If they had succeeded in cracking a deal with the Joint Forces for their return, they would have led respectable lives of businessmen or political touts with a gun for self-protection and the coveted prefix – Surrendered – in front of their heroic names. On the other hand, if they had been encountered,
Cycle of Cliches Milestone
MilestoneEvery sunset brings a promise of a new dawn, but the promise doesn’t entail a guarantee that the new dawn will be the one you always want to wake up to. After sunset, when darkness engulfs everything, you may try to light up your surroundings with fluorescent bulbs, tube-lights, candles and other means of artificial light, and yet suffer from a terrible sense of shrinking to nothingness and feel like a lonesome string of monologue, a disjointed design of the alphabet, a feeble anecdote of clichés. The way I had felt when Junali had disappeared from the colony.The next evening, I stood by the railway crossing for a while, at the entrance of the colony, watching express trains pass by in speed, goods train shuttle to change tracks and make their way to the yard, people and vehicles moving from one side of the crossing to the other when no trains passed by and the railway gates were opened. Every passing moment shrivelled me to the point that I didn’t want to see any
Cycle of Cliches Sermons on the Hill
Sermons on the Hill“Gadho, you need a direction and not a bike to find someone!” Birinchi was at his sarcastic best when I shared the benign intention of purchasing a brand-new bike with a whopping forty-six thousand rupees. Nisim was sitting beside us and relishing the breath-taking view of the eastern part of the city shrouded by layers of thick early morning mist. In fact, sitting at the stairs of Geeta Mandir that was what all three of us were doing. It was freaking cold at six in the morning, and it pierced our jackets, monkey caps, hand-gloves, jeans and shoes, like a million piercings by needles. Triple riding on motorbikes and scooters was banned in the city, but people still did it at insane hours, when the city police patrolling would be relaxed. The best, and perhaps the only insane hour, was daybreak. On the way, while we shivered from cold, Birinchi announced that in two weeks, he would also purchase a bike. His bowling skills had caught the attention of the pr
Cycle of Cliches Paradise
ParadiseThe ten-day mourning period seems like a never-ending press-meet, with every visitor coming to offer their condolences placing flowers, fruits, packaged milk, Joha rice in a tray in front of Ma’s portrait, and one childlike, innocent query to us – Jahnobi and I: “What happened?”Have people stopped reading newspapers, watching privatized news-channels or scrolling through Facebook posts? Has the talk of the town died out already? Or is this query just a filler to break the unfamiliar quietness in the room, where they might have had hundreds of inspired talks with their Baideu? Or did she have too quiet a farewell for her persona? Are they yet to realize that very soon, their Baideu too, like all good things, is destined to become a cliché? I think, I should print a standard verbiage and put it up at the main-door of our quarter, like a placard in a protest rally. Something like this:Ma, that is Your Beloved and/or Revered Baideu a.k.a Late Mrs Ruplekha Bhattachar
Cycle of Cliches When it Rains
When it Rains It was just a light drizzle when Jaanvi came out of the New Arts Building. Meeting Ranjita after so many days, was a treat. They work in the same place, the prestigious Cotton University, but hardly get time to meet due to their hectic schedule of lectures. Phone conversations can, in no way, complement meeting someone personally. At least, not someone like Ranjita. Childhood besties they are. In school, they were inseparable. Meeting her any day, means a much-needed unwinding bout.She starts walking towards the Administrative building with a cup of smoking hot coffee and two singoras in her mind, the ritualistic mid-day snacks in the Teacher’s Common Room. These are those familiar February drizzles – the ones that usher in Boxonto Panchami – starting around the fifth day of the Assamese month, Magha, and continuing in small spells for about a day or two. These aren’t the kind of which would make her completely wet, get her mekhela-sador stuck against her body, wit
Cycle of Cliches Memento
MementoThe Teacher’s Common Room door opens to a surprise for Jaanvi, a pleasant one at that. The 20 X 20 feet room, known mostly for an insipid silence amid the vibrant din of the campus, gloomy tube-lights, antique ceiling fans, mammoth bookshelves along the walls, empty chairs and desks with books and notebooks scattered on them most of the day, while their occupants, the teachers, would be engaged in delivering classroom sessions, now looks packed with people – senior students, colleagues and support staff. Often synonymous with inactivity, except for tea-sipping, cookies-munching, lesson-planning, assignment-checking tit-bits of conversation spells among colleagues, this room is now buzzing with movement and activity. Jaanvi’s colleagues and students, mostly known faces, are engrossed in candid, enthusiastic group chats, as if they have met one another after ages. The room has been decorated with balloons and streamers, freshly lit with white CFL bulbs. The congregation
Cycle of Cliches Being Mother
Being MotherThe QWERTY keys on the pallid black computer keyboard became a nightmare for Jaanvi ever since Nisim started going out of town for work. She felt that the letters are so nauseatingly jumbled up – the first row had Q in the extreme left and P on the extreme right, X came before Z in the third line, so did M before N. They could have placed at least B and C beside each other, as they were in the same row, but no, C came first and then there is V between C and B – it took long for her to find each of the keys while typing with the right and left index fingers. And then there was this irritating stuff – every time she needed to type something in upper case, she had to first turn the Caps Lock on, type the letter and then turn the Caps Lock off , so that all letters didn’t get typed in upper case. Nisim had shown her an easier way to do this – press the Shift key and letter to be typed in capital letter simultaneously – but she found it more frustrating. Many a time wh
Cycle of Cliches Cursed
CursedThe doctor’s appointment was at 2:00 PM. Nisim told Jaanvi that he would be home by noon. It was five past one, and he was still not back. Nisim was great, the way he was, except for being late for household needs. Jaanvi had been vocal about it, right from the time she had moved in to the Bhattacharya household. She never wanted Nisim to change because of her. She would never want to. But she definitely wanted him to be a bit more responsible towards their household needs. He managed to be on time on some occasions, but then he would mostly be in a hurry. The doctor’s personal assistant categorically asked them to be on time while confirming the appointment. They were late by ten minutes the previous month, and the doctor had refused to see her outright. It was only after a lot of requests that he had agreed, that too, reminding every two minutes during the check-up that he was getting late for a C-section surgery at City Heart Nursing Home.Now, every passing minute
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