When you've experienced death, you don't fear.

It isn't just all darkness any more.

With death comes the light. And,
the realisation that like all beings I am... and always will be.

to be continued...

Bhai was happy today. He didn't have to wake up early to book the bath. When he had silently slid off his bed earlier in the morning, he glanced at the crumpled little bundle wrapped up in a quilt on the next bed. "Oh, so she still is in bed," he thought happily. Tip-toeing out of the room, he could already smell mother’s busy kitchen. Ignoring the grumbling of his tummy, he decided to climb up the stairs to the terrace. That was his refuge. From mother’s constant fretting and father’s silent non-approving glances! But what was making Bhai grin today was the fact that he knew he had the terrace all to himself for at least an hour! Sister was still sleeping… and with her was their Doggy.


Beginning a story that has been running around in your head is easy. So, I started with the easy bit... even wrote a few pages. I knew what my characters were going to be like. I vaguely knew how I wanted the plot to proceed. I knew I wanted to keep writing. But I stopped. I stopped after I had filled a few pages with my scribbling. I stopped not because I couldn't write any more, or didn't know how to go ahead with the story. I stopped writing because I simply couldn't manage to find time. I needed quiet time alone to be able to give shape to my thoughts.

Sometimes I wish I could just give up on work, stay away from the daily grind for a bit, and finish what I started. But I know I cannot do that. At least not yet. I cannot write in bits and parts... it simply kills the unrestrained flow of the story. So, do I kill the story completely? Or wait for a time where I can keep writing? 

Bahlool — the wise fool

When I first saw the book, the cover did interest me. I took a second look, held it, flipped through the pages, and I knew I had to buy it. There’s this dear man who comes to my office every week. He is dear because he brings with him new and old books, glossy magazines, and also gets you the book you want to buy but don’t have the time to go to the bookshop for. With my work schedule, even managing to read regularly can be quite a challenge. I am guilty of trying though! (However, it’s the written word… err… printed word that we deal with every day.) So, I asked the dear man to get me a copy of The Wise Fool of Baghdad. The name reminded me of Shakespeare’s wise fools! Was Bahlool, like Touchstone and Lavache, also the symbol of dark wit and wise humour under the garb of madness? Did he too take on the royal wrath with his half-senile purity? He actually does! He teaches quite a few lessons of patience and benevolence to the people around him through his strange acts of righteousness.

The book says: “What can a man dressed in rags, and ostensibly mad teach us about life? Everything as it turns out. Bahlool who lived in Baghdad, circa the 8th century AD, feigned madness to escape the oppression of the ruling class. Now free of the burden of normalcy he dispensed wisdom in strange and amusing ways.”

He is rightly called the Wise or Insane! In an age, where violence and cruelty reside, we surely need the ‘insane wise one’ to help us get back to the long-forgotten innocent and virtuous path.

"You are invited..."

 
…and yet another invitation... to a marriage reception of an ex. But this is not new to me. Even a couple of years back, this would have made me feel good about myself and about the world in general. The invite would be a proof of how well I had handled my break-ups even as a 16-year-old! But, no longer do I feel so unidimensional, so at peace with everything around me, so glad to have closed chapters (if they ever can be) and having emerged unscathed. The invitations are a nagging reminder that I may not have always done it the right way. They are a reminder of how closed chapters, when reopened, can be unnecessarily bothersome. They remind me that the cordial and civil way isn’t always the best. If having to spend all my salary over buying wedding gifts was not enough, my having been "nice" and "mature" after dumping (ouch…harsh choice of word, I know!) people in my past has paid off too [oxymoron alert!]. With everyone (sans a few) rushing to tie the knot AGES before me, I wonder if I will be left with any money to arrange my own wedding, which btw, is still unplanned… like everything about me. Ever since I have shrugged off a tiny bit of the I-am-so-happy-with-everything attitude, not all these invites make me happy! Maybe I, like most in my profession, or of my age, have gone a little cynical. Former invites I accepted as genuine extensions of friendly gestures; which were proof of ‘there is no more bitterness’! And boy was I glad! I even attended a few of these weddings, got gifts (for the bride of course), and was also guilty of secretly checking out this new woman, while being at my charming best! But this last invite got me thinking… Is this normal? Will I ever invite my former flames to my wedding? Of course I won’t! However, receiving these invites would surely make that a tad difficult. I mean, aren’t you supposed to invite those who had invited you to their D-day? And why do I keep receiving such invites from men (who once were boys, and were as silly as you expect boys to be), who once were oh-so-much in love with me? Is this their way of showing me they never cared? Or are they just being manly, and showing off? "Look what you missed girl…" is that what they seem to be saying? Or is it a way of reviving my belief in "nothing ever ends"? Maybe they are just being coldly-cordial with me, just the way I have been with them. Who knows…

Yesterday once more

Nostalgic! I didn’t feel nostalgic. I was in fact more annoyed. At those nameless faces. They were everywhere...like aliens suddenly dropping from the sky and entering our domain. Even claiming it as their own. I saw them loafing around near the Portico. Some were playing cricket near the canteen with funny seriousness. The ones sitting inside the canteen were the most annoying. Most looked through us, as if we were wisps of invisible cloud walking amongst the living. Those who looked...well stared! That made us feel like aliens. As if we were entering a zone, which though familiar to us, refused to acknowledge our past intimacy with it.

We had changed. TF’s professor failed to recognise him. This made me and R giggle. As TF tried establishing the fact that he was very much a student of the department, the professor looked at me and said: “Eke chinte perechi...amar student”, much to the agony of TF! (hahaha...I wanted to laugh)...but decided to look down at my shoes instead. This art learnt way back in school still is a saviour, I realised. TF and R protested together: “She was NOT from this department!”

The poor man. He was a little confused. He had always seen me with the boys (now men!) from his department. And since these ‘boys’ were hardly spotted in the classroom, me not attending classes in that department shouldn’t have appeared strange.

Well, TF rambled on... He wanted to collect a certificate or something. As Mr professor lectured him on how to get it, I stared at TF. He nodded his head from side to side, adding “okay okay” after each sentence delivered by the professor. Hands held together behind him, TF transported me seven years back. That is how we spoke to our teachers. Now an NRI, my dear friend was suddenly the young 20-something boy i knew, and me his giggly pigtailed friend. As I watched his face, I wanted to go over and hug him. For being a part of my growing up days. My college life. The best days that ever were. Sometimes...things last longer than you think. Like memories. Like friends.

Without you...

Without you, the colours have lost their lustre. Fireworks don't shine bright.
The 'dreamland' you built is just another room.
The tiny green lights you had put in my room have started flickering.

Without you, I seem to have lost direction.
You seem to have taken away my patience, my spirit, my love along with you.
You have filled me with void instead.

I seem to love, but not with ferocity. I seem to work, but not with passion.

I do carry on. But don't live my life.

Durga Puja celebration and sexist!

Proud to be a Bengali, I always thought the sexual divide in this part of the country is rather thin. Here, the man does help in the kitchen and need not be fed before his wife or daughters!

I have grown up watching my dad make tea for the family. And when mum wasn’t home, visiting her parents, we would have a gala time. Me, my elder sister and my father. He would cook for us and not allow us inside the kitchen! Those half cooked potatoes and bland meat however would win hands down even today.

Well, I shouldn’t be digressing from what I started with. I was talking about my preconceived notion about the equality of gender in good old Calcutta, now called Kolkata. Durga Puja, where the devi shakti is worshipped, is probably one of those cultural events (I shall refrain from calling it a religious festival, because anyone who has been in Kolkata during Puja knows what a huge social affair it is, something more than just a religious ritual) which is all about equality. Here, I am not just talking about gender equality, but also of religion, class and caste.

So, naturally, I was taken aback, when while interviewing a bunch of renowned foreign photographers, I was told that the gender bias during Puja had not escaped them! Now, this team was in the city for a couple of weeks to capture the life and spirit of the festive season.

“It was interesting to see that men and women came in different trucks during the immersion process,” said one. (Let me name the particular photographer P.) What? Thought I. But how is that possible? I tried thinking of my many experiences to prove P wrong. But I had absolutely no memory of any immersion process. Gosh…so I never did accompany my para puja procession till the very end. And why so? “Coz good girls don’t stay out amongst drunk men this late,” I recalled someone telling me ages ago.

So, good girls don’t accompany the procession. But then what about those who do? They simply board a different truck. Even if they must accompany Maa Durga till the end of her journey, they must not share the same breathing space with that of loud, boisterous and drunk men.

Not very liberal, as I would have loved to believe.