I am Tapan Das

Hello!

I am Tapan Das. Have come back from history; was responsible for forming the hockey team for India in 1948 that won the Summer Olympics. People have a mixed opinion of me; I toss between being good, bad and ugly in the minds of people in my times. But now it is not about me, it is about the team I formed, the strategies I adopted to see India as the undisputed champion of hockey. I had to suffer a big blow following the partition of India because, of the team formed, brilliant players had to leave for Pakistan and Australia. But this also belongs to the past. From the pages of history, I have reappeared; but this time with a different mission. So here is how I go.

-          What? Mr Tapan Das! This is not possible. You see we are very happy that you have come to form a football team for the FIFA 2022, but you are asking for the impossible. Why!

-       This is my first condition. If you do not concur, I will go away. I will form three teams, one for India, one for Pakistan, one for Bangladesh; three teams.

-          But this will involve lot of political interventions.

-          I can wait. Although I understand the difficulties, but I will only concentrate on Sports, on Football; for me the political challenges is not my concern; I am sorry if I am hurting your sentiments, but this is my condition. You asked why, for this I will quote a famous line from a song written by Arthur Altman, it was made very famous during my times by Frank Sanatra, it’s ‘All or nothing at all…’ I still have close to four years; we are in July 2018 now, that should be okay.

(The whole room full of people who matter looked at him in utter surprise, but didn’t ask him to clarify further).

 After a lot of talking, meetings, discussions the leaders of three robust countries, who were also eager to see their countries play, sort of agreed. But none of them was ready to believe what was going on.

-          Will you give the same type of coaching to all the teams?

-          100%, it’s because…

-          Okay we get you. And you say you can help us win?

-          No.

-          Then??

-          You see the three countries have hardly been in the football world, despite being great lovers of this sport; we love the game as much as the Europeans, Africans and the Latinos. Winning is not important. Of the thirty-two countries that participated this year in 2018, only two countries won, sorry three, but all the rest have participated; participation is important, I will help the countries to be in the football map. We deserve to be there in the map at least for heaven’s sake! We must be there before 2030..that's when FIFA will be celebrating its centenary...it seems we have accepted that we can never participate in world cup football; my sincere effort will be to change this frozen mindset.

-          Okay, we get it. But what happens if none of the three teams qualifies?

- I will tell you when the time comes. If you ask me now, I will go away.

- Meaning? Do you understand it involves crores of money?

- I know. We have many industrialists, intellectuals, football freaks who will willingly contribute. Why don't you found a company called INDIA FIFA and have it listed?

   What!!! INDIA FIFA...you are talking about three countries, aren't you?

Oho sorry. Then you can found three companies, like PAKISTAN FIFA, INDIA FIFA and BANGLADESH FIFA and have them listed in your respective countries?

What rubbish! And then have them liquidated after four years?

Four years? It's a lifelong journey, after 2022, we have 2026 and so on. Of course, I don't understand the complications; I know nothing of anything, that's why I am depending on people who have visibility and understanding of how the business world functions. I was just suggesting of how funds can come in the noblest of ways.

So if it is public money, then we don't have to be answerable. Is that what you're trying to say?

- So it means we don't have to be answerable.

- Did I say that? Okay. Let me leave then. Bye.

- Stay. Do you have any other conditions?

-           Patience. I will reveal everything to you.

-          Okay carry on. We are listening.

It is very simple, but it will need your patronage and support. I will first form a team which will decide on the selection. Selection cannot be influenced by anyone; I need your concurrence on this. Our target will be to complete the selection procedure of three teams from three countries by the end of January 2019. Our target age would be from 15 to 18 so that they become just right by 2022. Then the training will start. We would like the boys to practise in the weather that’s close to Qatar; know that the training team will have many divisions, as follows:

Training the legs – we need to hire the best coaches of the world

Football (3 in number)

Long jump (Ideally 6)

High jump (6)

Running (3)

Relay race (3)

Training the body

Gymnastics (9)

Yoga (9)

Acrobatics (9)

Light to medium weight lifting (9)

Mountaineering

Swimming

Kungfu (3)

Taikwando (3)

Karate (3)

Training the mind

Meditation (9)

Sign language (9)

Cooking (9)

Playing with an invisible ball at night (3)

Joint events (like CSR activities)

Body language (9)

Ethics and compliance (9)

Sportsmanship (9)

TV sessions and theory of football (9)

Painting (the type of painting will centre around football, field, various type of shots depending on positions of players, the traditional landscapes and calligraphy of common mission ) (9)

Writing of dreams (concerning football) (9)

Self talk (1)

Prayer (3 or 4)

-          Is that all?

-          No.

-          Carry on.

-          The teams will be prepared to play by 2020. From then we will invite various countries to play friendly matches; our players will also visit countries like Argentina, Nigeria, France to have on-the-field experience. However, our focus will be to invite teams here. So from July 2020, there will be practical sessions with other teams.

      Okay. Are you done?

-          Yes

-          The room laughed; where is your budget? What are all these numbers? Painting!!! Self talk?? Cooking!!! Sign language?? What’s going on Mr Das! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!! And what will be your fees?

-          (Ignoring the laughter) The numbers are arbitrary as of now; they represent the number of trainers for each criterion. Only for self talk I have put myself as a trainer, will do that in batches. I will clarify the reason one by one. Before that I will talk about my fees. My fees are your support, your preparedness of spending whatever I ask for, your belief in me. I need your support. I do not need any money, if I take money, my power will go.

-          (The room was suspiciously silent. Some of them started checking him out. Some were still controlling their smirks and their grins) What will you train the players on self talk?

-          Some specific prayer tables, the most important is ‘ I play to play’; ‘I play my best’…like this there will be some more.

-          What? You need to correct it…make them practise ‘we will win’

-          No. Winning is not important. I told you.

-          Then no one will respect you.

-          I don't want respect. I am here to give respect, not to beg for respect. This is the major difference between my earlier version and my current one. I will take out the fake stress from the players; they will play on the field like magicians. We will guide the football coaches to train the players mainly on passing, heading, flipping, and kicking the ball from all positions of the field apart from the specialties they will bring to the table.

-          Well then are we good to go? You will mail us the reason for imparting the various trainings that you have decided, we will see and then approve.

-          No.

-          What?

-          If you want to approve, then I will go away.

-         What is this ‘I will go away’! Are you threatening us? You seem to be like the Pied Piper!

-           I may sound like him, but you are certainly not like the Mayor(s) of Hamilton. You are good people, well-meaning leaders, but there are certain things you cannot see. I will help you see that. You cannot approve. I will only inform you the reason, you cannot approve, I want the boys to be trained in all the subjects without fail, for two and a half years. We are good to go only if I get your consent on this.

-          (Times) Okay Mr Das. From when do you want to start?

-          Yesterday.

-          Aha…you are smart, but we want results. Please mail us the details.

-          Sure.

The most engaging process of training to bring the three beautiful countries in the map of world football begins from tomorrow. Tonight Tapan would have to write the reasons for the various training he strongly recommends for the boys. He is aware that leaders may not agree with the ones they'd think as not connected, irrelevant as they'd like to call. He has never been able to see India as three different countries, but he respects the separation, he has to, but how could he get the consensus from the leaders so easily. He has to make it right, he has to try his best; even if he fails, won’t there be other Tapans who would carry this forward? Trying is far better than accepting defeat. Now is the night, now is the time, everything will depend on how he sells his ideas. Stars are blinking more in his eyes than in the sky. After supper, his wife has just gone to the kitchen to fill the flask with black coffee. 'All, or nothing at all' by Sanatra is slowly filling the air. Tapan starts writing.

After this, the real thing will start, 24/7 schooling. Tapan is looking forward to it. No, it is not important for 'you' to know about the letter that Tapan will write, substantiating the reason for having all the training modules in place; Tapan is here to plant the seed of possibilities in your hearts, that's all my friends...see you there in Qatar, where our flags will dance in the tune of our national anthems.

Woof! Woof!

The Beagle had just arrived, 21 days. Puja’s friend Priya named him Snoopy who became very popular in the neighborhood soon after he came. Priya has a lab, about a year old. His name is Simba. As days went by, both of them became very good friends, almost like Puja and Priya; but Simba would maintain his seniority and demanded respect from Snoopy all the time. Snoopy was always respectful, well not always, especially when they were given those yummy rawhide dental chew sticks. Snoopy would always catch them faster than Simba, the old boy would play the role of an indulgent big brother…didn’t mind sparing him one or two, after all Snoopy was the little brother. Hunters by instinct, you had to watch them play Frisbee in the park; everyone would in absolute wonder. When they ran chasing for the Frisbee, it felt as if they were gliding away. There was only fun in the game, they wouldn’t even know the name Frisbee, and there was no winning or losing, no rules, just playing and running around.Yes it was addictive too. The other day, an old man threw his stick and started running with them forgetting his pains…everyone laughed as the old man fell on the ground laughing helplessly, then stood up again and went running after Snoopy and Simba. Everyone was in splits. When the children in the park would say, ‘you have such nice dogs’ Priya would tell them, ‘please call them Snoopy and Simba, like you don’t call us girls, you call us Puja and Priya, don’t you?’ Children are fast learners, for soon the Beagle and the Labrador were known as Snoopy and Simba. Some elders would also call Simba as Veeru and Snoopy as Jai; the two fast friends from the famous film Sholay (Embers). They conquered everyone’s heart with their looks and their wagging tails, but many were also fascinated with their ‘woof, woof’, all through the evening they would run around saying ‘woof, woof’. Like this, Simba and Snoopy aka Veeru and Jai became die-hard friends.

Puja and Priya are not friends anymore. Priya stopped talking to Puja not because she has a newborn brother now; she stopped talking to her two months ago when Puja's family was preparing for the baby’s arrival. On a fateful day, Puja, out of nowhere, bluntly said to her, ‘the dog died’.

Simba still looks for his friend when he passes by Puja’s home. He still sniffs, looks at the sky and then says, ‘woof, woof’...as if wanting to say... how could you go like this Jai without even tossing head or tail. In the film, you at least fooled me tossing... remember? This is not fair. Woof! Woof!

Note:
Sholay (Embers) is the most popular Bollywood film the industry has ever known. Ever since its release in 1975, the two protagonists Veeru and Jai in the film have become iconic friends. In real life, best friends in India are given the status of Veeru and Jai when their friendship matches the standard of these heroes of the film. Without going into the main plot, let me explain the touching story behind tossing of a coin. Jai has a coin that he would toss every time the friends would choose between a yes and a no. Jai would tell Veeru if it was head, Veeru would win and he would lose. The last scene unfolds when Jai was seriously wounded and Veeru wouldn’t leave him but surrender to the Police who were searching for them. Jai, as usual, tossed the coin and told Veeru he had to leave if it was a head, could stay with him only if it was tail. Veeru didn’t leave. During the funeral Veeru discovered that the coin Jai tossed had heads on both sides, his friend Jai had always given him the better option all through his life.

The flash fiction, ‘Woof! Woof!’ tries to present a grim picture of dog owners being dog killers in a discrete way. I don’t know about other countries but sadly, it is very common in India. The flash, most humbly urges its readers to think many times before bringing a pet into the family, once brought pets become family members whom you cannot desert or clear for any justifiable reason. 

On the move

She was not even twelve when she saw her mom kissing Sudhin uncle. They were all traveling to Chandigarh to meet her father; when she woke up in the morning on the train with sleepy eyes, the first thing she wanted to know was how far was Chandigarh; she bent down from the upper berth, saw her mom kissing Mr Dasgupta, occupying the middle berth. Babu, her brother, five, was sleeping then with her mom on the lower berth…little did he know what his mom was doing...he was perhaps dreaming his usual dreams, fairy godmother that looked like her mom, hugging him, feeding him, kissing him.

This stays with her even today. She called her mom names, never understood why still her father was committed to her! Years later, she saw her father on the high, making it with her aunt out in the garden in a moonlit night. Her mom was then cooking in the kitchen. She just heard her aunt say… ‘O so now I know…that’s why didi had to go to him?’

She never discussed this with Babu, not even after her mom died. But these questions about how elders live went deep inside her, she was thankful to God that at least Babu didn’t have to witness those incidents. Two years later, when she was beginning to enjoy her teens, the whole family went to Digha with Mr and Mrs Dasgupta. On the beach Mr Dasgupta took her to a silent place, held her tightly and tried to molest her. Furious, she went to her parents and complained, her father hit the man badly, but that was all, the teenage girl didn't know why the two families did not part. Of course, she never spoke to the virile uncle anymore.

Sutonuka, instead of becoming a potential criminal, as a psychiatrist told her, became a healer. No, she did not find any letter in any cupboard, no one told her why her parents did what they did, she went searching for answers everywhere possible, she discovered Mrs Dasgupta to be a very honorable lady, her aunt’s husband to be happy with the marriage, and she herself was very happy when ‘others’ saw their family as picture perfect.  Perhaps not knowing the truth is bliss.

She was sixteen when her mom died. In the last couple of years, she became best of friends with her. She understood her not only as an erudite who would be comfortable talking about scriptures as well as novels and poems of Tagore, Bankim, Shakespeare, Flaubert, Camus and so on, but also as an outstanding mother. When she'd laugh the sky would fall in love with the earth. If people still remembered her, it was also because of her melodious laughter that had a healing effect on people. She refused to let her mother be defined by only that one incident... this wisdom came to her much later.

At forty-two, she has a broken marriage. Apparently she broke off because her husband was impotent. She works in IT and still takes care of her ex-husband by paying all his bills. He lost his job because he was charged of stealing and was also an under-performer. She stays with her daughter now who has decided not to marry and Sutonuka is okay with it, her ex-husband lives in another city where luckily he has a house of his own. Her daughter simply adores her, doesn’t respect her father at all… why not, respect has to be earned.

She also has another profession…it’s not a profession because she doesn’t charge anything, it is rather her passion, she calls it her raison d’être!

She heals traumatized children. Children whose parents had either abandoned them, or whose parents continuously fight with each other. She heals also those whose either parent has outrageous extra-marital affair. She is doing it quite successfully. How no one knows. She hugs them and says only one thing… shh… mum’s the word… she says “I am indebted to all of you.”

She tries to look for the unanswered questions even today, seemed to have responded to some of them herself, through her life. Whenever she closes her eyes, or becomes unmindful, she has this impression of being on the move, going nowhere on a train.

The new orphanage

‘Tell me why you feel this way.’

 ‘I wish I could tell you. They are so caring. I have two sets of parents now.’

 ‘So?’

 ‘I’m in class V now. I am quite grown up. I need to understand the marriage of my parents has broken for good. I cannot expect them to be friends again.’

 ‘But they are friends Kanta…you know that.’

 ‘O yes, I am sorry… I didn’t mean that; I know they are best of friends (curling up to the Teddy her parents gifted her when she was sent for playschool, she refused to leave her mom…her parents were in love with each other then).’

 ‘So? You have understood, you not only have two sets of parents, you have two homes, and one brother. I don’t understand what more you want. Once the marriage is broken it’s broken, you expect your parents to waste their lives and stay fighting with each other?’

 ‘Masi (aunty) why’s he my half-brother? Is it because he also comes from a broken marriage?’

 ‘How funny!’ (Her aunt smiles, but takes Kanta on her lap…didn’t know why she felt the pain of her mother’s death when she was her age when her aunt hugged her to tell her she’d be there for her.
She hugged Kanta. The Teddy lied on the bed looking at them.

The homeless

She has a beautiful garden with a huge iron gate. It is surrounded by tall walls with well-maintained ivy; but the two guardians that give her paradise a characteristic look are the red and the yellow flamboyant trees. Sujata knows that whatever happens, the trees will never go; this has given her a sense of stability, like that of her parents; the red one is ‘baba’, the yellow is ‘ma’ for her; there are other trees also in her garden but none could match those two parental trees. She comes from a very erudite family, her father a learned industrialist, her mother an acclaimed singer. She is twelve and being the single child, she is always taken care of, if not pampered.

Today she is going to another home, she has two homes now, her mother’s second husband is also very kind; her mom got married a year ago, when she was eleven, but today her father is bringing his second wife too. Sujata is twice lucky; now she has two homes and two sets of parents, two half-siblings. She has consoled herself saying her parents have one life to live. The only difference is that Sujata now has to stay with her mom for five days; of course she can spend the week-ends in her father’s house. All of this was decided by whom she doesn’t know until she came to know from her parents that it was her own decision.

When she hugged the trees before leaving, she found her hands still so little.

Life skills

"What? Are you crazy? I will never allow my wife to work. Women should be best kept at home."

Everybody was nodding their heads in approval. Except Kalyan.

"You must be out of your mind Rajesh. Do you know the organization you are working in has more of women workforce than men?"

"Ah Kalyan… all these things I know, but you don’t understand," snapped Rajesh. Phani added, "Aha Kalyan...why are so negative?"

Rajesh is the manager. The boss. So in corporate, you are not supposed to backchat..any crap they say you have to accept, otherwise you are doomed.Everybody was stunned with Kalyan’s comment…this ‘everybody’ was laughing 'at' Kalyan because they had to laugh 'with' VT Rajesh; in this there were Srikanth, Phani, Suresh, Faisal; also Ahalya, Susmitha, Suchitra; they were all looking condescendingly at Kalyan.

But the bad apple Kalyan was unaffected, he goes on… "Rajesh…the other day you were saying you don’t like AR Rehman…can you tell us why…"

Rajesh was furious, but managers do not show their anger, they become all the more polite, most politely they will throw you out, but they will never be rude you know…they cannot violate the culture of their ‘race’ you see.

He smiles and says…"yes Kalyan I can never support him because he changed his religion."

"How can you say such a thing Rajesh? Changing his religion is his personal choice. In such a learning organization, how can you keep saying these things."

Kalyan has picked up fights of this nature with many faceless, spineless managers. He also has another glaring fault. He doesn't speak English like his managers. He had been asking for a laptop for his two-day assignment in Bangalore, a very important client was coming and he had to do a presentation; but his manager said no, he declined to go writing a mail like this:

"I think I have explained this earlier in simple English that it is difficult to make a client presentation without a laptop..."Of course he wrote this because of a mild irritation BUT "explained this earlier in simple English?!"; how dare he such a thing! This was considered a violation of "respect for individuals"... he was summoned by the HR and there was this manager's manager called Lakshmi who found the tone of the email very offensive and perhaps the rudest of mails she has ever read. It seemed every other person, Kalyan's managers, his peers were picking up and jotting down issues against Kalyan. However, it was this same organization which gave him a promotion in three months, his skill was considered at P4, the highest anyone could get in his domain; this was a point of discord between him and his once-upon-a-time manager Asif. There were other irking points too, Kalyan's clients always wanted him and no one else because he has never failed in his SLA (Service level agreement) and because of his vast experience and qualification, which included a degree from abroad,  his salary was too high. This he heard from none other than Lakshmi over coffee breaks, 'Your salary is very high Kalyan and we need to use you enough' Kalyan maintained this P4 status following rigorous interviews from native speakers. Whatever said and done organizations are magicians.

Outcome.

Kalyan’s salary was high. His performance was poor. He might be an M.Phil in German, but he cannot form correct sentences with correct syntax. He went through a PIP (Performance Improvement Program) where his lack of language skills is recorded and documented. Everyone in his team was dissatisfied with his behavior, he was considered rude and unkind. He has been charged with sexual harassment by Ahalya and Susmitha.

His attrition was managed, almost like Socrates, Jesus, Joan of Arc.

Years later, Kalyan meets one of his former employees Faisal.

“Kalyan, you were good, but you don’t have life skills. Now these things are not taught you know.”

No reservations

Kalyan is a daydreamer. But he also has these nightmares every single night: he cannot get on the train that’s going somewhere he needs to go to rejoin his office. Every passenger in the train is known to him…hey come on, it’s a dream… it’s not real, but here is how it goes…

"How did you get on this train Jaffar and Harish? You made me drink last night and orchestrated a video so you can blackmail me? And you are going to impart training on ‘Integrity’? No, no why are you looking so kindly at me…I know you are faking it… you are people who only lie with good English. What is it… you are trying to give me a hand so I can get on the train? With you? I will not…let me try the other coach….

You Loveleen and Disha!!! You two are here!!! You’d scare me with your looks…do you remember?? Whenever I would work in my cubicle, you would just eye me…keep on eyeing me with a ‘we will screw you soon’ glare… and I would sweat out of fear…you have also got permission to be on this train? You were scared because I could take your subjects but you could never ever take mine… so you teamed up with Jyoti who was also upset with me because I remembered the names of the participants of my class? Do you remember?? And you are going there to train participants on interpersonal skills?? And now why are you looking so kindly huh? Loveleen… your child Tejas didn’t come on my lap and the whole group thought he didn’t because I was a bad person…and you made it seem so right…but no…here through meditation I come to know that the little boy didn’t come to me because he was receiving negative vibrations from all of you… for now…there are children who come to me, talk to me, love me… and no…I am NOT falling prey to your ploy again…and good lord…who am I seeing…SIN… Subhesh, Indrani and Nishant…my God…I have reasons to run from here too… you ruined my life with a click of a button… when you were alone you were good human beings, but when you came together as managers, you became sinful… don’t give me your hand…I will try to find a place somewhere else…

O Sanghamitra!!!! You have also managed a seat here?? How many times have you insulted me saying I have joined to ruin your career…but lo you ruined mine… I was senior to you…eighteen years… as if that was a crime huh? Never allowed me for client presentation because you were owning the process…and Vivek? You must change your name…that’s the least I can say about you… shame on you…a dirty climber… made me translate like a donkey…. millions of words… all machine translation…and then found faults… and who am I seeing here... is that you Suma??? You are also here!!! You had a problem with my qualification...so you were threatened… not only that… you hated me because I found your faults… yes in French dear…do you remember… you’d write ‘a fin de’… and not ‘afin de’… and there were scores of other faux pas… you guys have also got permission to be on this train…let me try some other coach..

But where do I go? I see all of you occupying every seat...including mine! Waving at me? Going places? I also have to go...I have a family to feed too, besides I have a valid ticket here… and I am dead sure most of you don’t… you will manage your seat from the TT thanks to your interpersonal skills; but please don’t fake your kindness… you’d been not so kind when you had the chance… okay go… take care…all the best. I cannot run anymore... I have to sleep."

Beethoven's Pastoral is playing in the background. There is also this intimidating Denver who's singing away 'take me home'. Why are they looking so kind and happy? Are they faking it? Are they happy because they are on the train or is it because Kalyan is not!

The train whistles. Kalyan, wet with pain, wakes up in the middle of the night. He goes to the kitchen, silently has water. He visualizes how ‘everybody’ has been trying to tell him what he was not… a monster, a black sheep, a bad apple…and what not. He goes to his desk and writes:

My body is not a garbage.

It is a garden.

Ah! Writing is such a relief, he takes a deep breath and smiles. Indeed the 'body' is not a garbage...to be filled with thoughts that only bring diseases and miseries; it is a garden that needs to be guarded and protected. No matter what, he will not be defined by the ‘other’ going forward; he has every reason to destroy himself, but no, he decides to face life; he will do things that he holds as good. He cannot control the world outside , but he can definitely control himself, his body, his mind and his spirit, most of all, his thoughts. The little Tejas cried looking at him; never mind, it was not his fault, neither was it Kalyan’s, but he was holding himself as a devil because of this for a long time; the whole group would have at that moment thought of him as a criminal.

But can Loveleen be blamed, can any characters here be blamed… we have made the world a stage of competition… going berserk because of this win-lose model, where one has to win at the cost of others. They were all trying to gain their own positions, as a winner... in this game, someone has to lose, dadi Janki so affectionately says...haar mani (accept defeat) brings harmony..someone has to lose; Kalyan, wide awake, comes to the balcony and looks at the sky, it looks black with the moon, blue with the sun; both are true or none is... if he was destined to be a loser, so be it, but he will not allow any negative thought poison his body, it is simply not worth it; no one is that important to ruin his sleep and his peace of mind…and there is no need to run away from anything. And in this trajectory towards understanding Self, he is not a loser.

He is sure the train will come again… he would simply let the train and the passengers go with no reservations.

On his headphone he listens to Beethoven's sixth symphony again in the dead of the night that's slowly breaking into a dawn.

Sorry?

On school counselor’s advice, Priya was expelled. She was 14 and had a physical relationship with her neighbor-uncle, a 50 year old bachelor. On the fateful night, when she returned home late, bruises all over her body, she found her parents fighting; that low-voice fighting behind closed doors pierced through the walls; how she hated it. Top notch managers of huge teams of diverse ethnic groups, Priya’s parents fought with time, to find some time; but whenever they did, they fought with each other.

When the furious parents discovered their child in such a pitiful state, they slapped her, hurled abuses at her, like they did at the slightest excuse they could find; but here was a new word added, slut. Priya seemed unwanted. The dark night also had to pass, the child didn’t have the right of a nightmare; she was staring at the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Next morning, the parents took her to the best psychiatrist in town.

Listen we want her to be out of this trauma as soon as possible.
Okay, but what is the issue?
Please find out what’s wrong with her from her. Her school has thrown her out and we don’t know what to do! Day in and day out we are working for her, trying to give her the best of the best and this is how she is paying us back.
All right, don’t you worry at all; I will talk to her and get back to you.
Let her be admitted here until we come back in the evenings? And listen, we don’t want to hear all that ‘love me the most when I deserve it the least’, okay?
Sure, as you wish.

Priya and the psychiatrist spoke for two hours; decidedly, she was low and guilty; in between naps and favourite TV shows, Priya also played card games, like Solitaire, Hearts.
When the parents came back to fetch Priya, the psychiatrist, very affectionately, as though talking to some children, said to the parents:

Please take your daughter back. There’s nothing wrong with her, she doesn’t need counseling. I think both of you do. Let me know when. Also, if possible, may I talk to the counselor of the school?

Sorry?

Monologues

“Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?

I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity,

To see another thus. I know not what to say.

I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;

I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured

Of my condition!”


After a long hiatus, Kalyan Dasgupta was re-reading King Lear; he suddenly remembered, quite out of context though, how horridly he had to struggle with his colleagues off and on.

‘What? Don’t be so desperate Kalyan! You are Dasgupta and you are saying you are a Brahmin! For Bongs, only Mukherjees, Bannerjees, Chatterjees are the main Brahmins, there are some others, but certainly not Dasgupta’, snapped Satish Bhardwaj. He was supported by Imran Zaidi who said Dasguptas were vaishyas. Was Imran trying to insult him by saying Vaishyas because according to the structure, Vaishyas came much lower than the Brahmins; do people still think in this way… even today? Why should he take it as an insult… prosperity thrives thanks to the Vaishyas for God’s sake! Kalyan kept simmering from inside…at their ignorance, he wanted to tell them they were Saraswat Brahmins, one of the most erudite of sects among the Brahmins; they belonged to the Vaidya (doctor) clan. As the legends go, they decided to dissect the corpse of humans many years ago in order to do an in-depth study of the human anatomy. They were obviously criticized as this was against the religion; Brahmins couldn’t touch dead bodies, let alone work with them! Therefore, they were disallowed. However, the ‘main brahimins’ said if Vaidyas were willing to lose their Brahmin status and became Shudras, they could. Since Vaidyas were determined and committed to their work, they agreed under the condition of re-elevating as Brahmins once the research was over. Unfortunately, they were not allowed to become Brahmins again. Vaidyas and Brahmins went into a battle for several years. Ultimately, truth triumphed and the Vaidyas got back their brahmanatya, and this time around they were considered even a notch higher than the mainstream Brahmins.

Taciturn that he was, Kalyan couldn’t argue with his colleagues, Satish and Imran. Satish was a hardcore Brahmin from Kerala Palakkad and Imran, a high class Muslim. Kalyan was not desperate proving himself as a Brahmin, but he was very dejected because no one was interested listening to his version. If you cannot make your point, you pay a heavy price; with him there were many such incidences.

The other day, there was this Loveleen who told Kalyan that she saw Tagore’s Devdas, and never liked it. Kalyan couldn't even suggest that she read Devdas, instead of watching it; he couldn’t even say that  Devdas was written by Sarat Chandra, not by Tagore because Loveleen, a gold medalist in English Literature was not interested to enter into any dialogue. There was also this TV Ramesh who told Kalyan he never liked Tagore because according to him Tagore was not a patriot. Kalyan was sufficiently well read to cut him down, but he couldn’t; the same colleague also said he never liked A R Rahman because he changed his religion; even then Kalyan couldn’t say a word. After all, how does it matter to Tagore and AR Rahman!

Are these relevant anymore, he thought. They seemed so trivial to him now. But he wished there was some kind of a dialogue. He felt sad for all his colleagues who made it a point to pounce on him for no reason at all. Or could there be a reason why they chose him as garbage until he disappeared from their sight for good?

How does it even matter now, but he was worried of other Kalyans suffocating inside muscled monologues of their colleagues as opposed to their meek monologues.

It seemed to him fighting as a child with friends for a stolen eraser. He found solace in reading, he sat around enjoying the lines of Lear:

“Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you, and know this man;

Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant

What place this is; and all the skill I have

Remembers not these garments; nor I know not

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;

For, as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

Pray, do not mock me.
I am a very foolish fond old man”


He stopped at Act IV with Kent’s exit:

“My point and period will be thoroughly wrought,
Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought.”


He blessed all his colleagues from the bottom of his heart. He will read the last act another day. Perhaps.

The trap

'Summing up all what I had been trying to establish for the past ninety minutes is this. That it is a vice. We do many things that we wouldn’t approve of, for appreciation and recognition. We lie, cheat, back-stab our friends, colleagues in our attempt to becoming the ‘best’ in the industry. Everything seems to be justified in the name of competition. But they are not, deep inside we pay a heavy price, they are stress, anxiety, depression. We are all drug addicts; the addiction has become endemic now; we have become addicted to deadly drugs called appreciation and recognition. We cannot face the truth by sitting with ‘self’; we are perpetually fleeting from ourselves by partying, going out for vacations, watching TV, going out for films, dating. The reason we all hate to go to work (this ‘all’ means majority of us) is because we do not approve of doing what we do in the professional world.  Maybe the most popular quote, ‘Thank God, it’s Friday’ or the most popular engagement of the workforce, which is looking for holidays’ list right at the beginning of the year, are all indications of this disapproval. Sadly, our behavioral pattern in the professional world has influenced our personal world too; we seem to be in the vicious cycle, taking a roller coaster ride in a park which is more alarming than amusing. It is a trap. But the question is if we can liberate ourselves from these drugs! Yes, by exercising spirituality, we certainly can. We can be successful and yet be free from all kinds of diseases by regularly practising meditation. Thank you ladies and gentlemen; thank you for your patience.'

The engrossed audience was silent for a while; then gave the speaker a standing ovation for his convincing speech. Why not, he is till date the best speaker the world has ever known. Everyone felt it was an outstandingly researched speech and kept on clapping, until the curtain fell.

Shift

As usual, Palash occupied the same table of the restaurant he would frequent with friends many years ago. Today, by accident, he ran into this eatery that’s on the street where he spent his college days and a chunk of his professional days, for years. Oxford book store on the Park Street, Alliance française, Waldorf, Moulin Rouge, Giggles and St.Xavier’s College; nothing has changed, of course there was a restaurant called ‘Eighteen’ that has disappeared, an unassuming cozy little eating joint for friends and colleagues that has been transformed into a showroom now. ‘But there is no one here! I am the only one! Why! It was so crowded during our times; maybe it’s not as popular now’, Palash thought, just when a waiter came unto him and asked:

- Excuse me sir, are you waiting for your friends?
- No.
- Then sir if you could shift into the other side.
- Where?
- Please come with me sir… we call it The singLeader wing… it’s for people who are not exactly waiting for anyone!

Singleader! It never existed in our times. But what a lovely name, Palash thought; it’s for people who are like leaders, most of the times single yet singing their story, but then are all leaders single... is it a euphemism, he wondered. Years ago, he recalled he’d also suggested to the owner of Oxford bookstore to rename it as Booxford… the owner appreciated the name but said he would stick to Oxford because the name sells! Understandable, he thought…it’s not so easy to change.

No! The popularity of his favourite restaurant has not changed at all as Palash saw a whole lot of crowd in this part of the world; the world that was out of sight from the family dining table of the L-shaped hideaway he would occupy with friends years ago.

A buried story cremated

It took three days for the Police to find his identity. What appeared as a hit and run case for the poor boy, going on a blind date, had layers of mystery. Each day the Police department had been unfolding such layers, one after the other.

Yogesh Patel got her name from a social network. He was talking to Raveena on his mobile while crossing the Jadavpur 8B bus stand around 6 in the evening when two Tata Sumo speeding from opposite directions smashed him and managed to flee faster than the wind ignoring the traffic signals; the cars carrying the number plates of Gujarat and Andhra Pradesh were discovered in the open nothings on the Eastern bypass, two days later; the numbers did not lead the Police anywhere as the names of owners were fake. Dishonesty is driven with such foolproof honesty.

Just after the incident happened, the angry onlookers, pedestrians were perplexed at the audacity of the drivers.

- God! What is happening in the city!

The Police of West Bengal is often compared with the finest ones in the world. They rushed to the place in minutes. The Police started with zero clues because a) his wallet was nowhere to be found, b) his face was unidentifiable and c) his mobile was broken into pieces; everyone was horrified. The guys in uniform were looking blankly at the crowd. The sergeant shouted:

‘Guys we need your cooperation, if anyone has seen anything, please help…he could have been your relative too!’

Someone came forward and said he saw him talking on the phone while crossing the road. Everyone started blaming the boy, then their generation. Vikas, the sergeant, asked the crowd to stop blaming, criticizing; he and his team managed to dismiss the curious crowd carrying stories to tell.
Luckily Vikas found the sim.

Three days later.

The Police tracked the girl who was talking to Yogesh from a Hotel in Jadavpur; she promptly disappeared when the Police raided the hotel. Went to the room, she’d checked in at 3 in the afternoon as Mrinalini with a fake address, her mobile number was ringing to death. However, through trial and error, the service provider was found; although it was a prepaid sim, Vikas tracked her number in Rajabazar, knocked at the door and found a totally astonished Raveena opening the door.

From her, the Police found some jaw-dropping inputs. She is a sophomore who goes on blind dates with strangers, manages her expenses, like cell, branded clothing, accessories, and so on. He got this guy’s name through a common friend and was waiting for him to arrive at the Hotel, obviously he never came.
In the meantime, Yogesh’s details were easily found from the sim; he was from Gujarat and worked in an IT firm, stayed in Salt Lake City in a PG with friends. The HR was shocked to hear the news; they never inquired because he was on a week’s leave and scheduled to go to his hometown. ‘He was always reticent with low interpersonal skills, but he also came across as a very honest and hardworking person.’

From the contact list, the Police found two important names: Mata and Pita. They were informed. To their horror, the Police did not notice any shock in the tone of Yogesh’s parents, they couldn’t believe they were informing the parents about the demise of their son!

‘Ye to honahi tha… (this was inevitable)’ – this response had not shocked them so much, what followed, did. What Yogesh’s father said loosely translated into English like this:

‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble of finding my son’s address and all. I will send my employees and my two sons to do the rituals…please tell me how much you had to spend… my sons will pay you the amount before leaving; a simple hit and run case.’

‘But who is Srinivas? Do you know him? He is not picking up the phone.’

‘Ah no…I don’t know…must be one of his friends…you please leave it.’

‘I don’t think he was his friend…he stored the name as Srinivas uncle. From the conversation, we could understand that he was your son’s appointed lawyer from whom he was taking advice on issues concerning property. Last two conversations were very heated and your son was found to be blaming him for keeping him in the dark… can you tell me something about this please?’

‘Yes I spoke to him, like you he is also a very nice gentleman. You please leave it’. He hanged.

Vikas, for a moment hated his job because it often exposed him with facts that are cruel and ghastly. How a father can say like this about his son, he wondered. My God! Was that a murder? Is this a murder? Would I eventually be asked to close this case! No way!

When the body was burning in the Kalighat crematorium, in the presence of Yogesh’s two borthers, Vignesh and Jitesh, Vikas was asking questions that refused to escape as the smokes of the body. For a moment he thought of Raveena and felt like throwing up. There was no one mourning for the boy who stored their parents’ names as Mata and Pita. Vikas did not take a rupee from Yogesh’s family.

In a week’s time, the story was inevitably closed as unsolved.

The unheard

Tapan and Meghna met at the Mumbai Airport. Thirty years have passed. Meghna Agarwal loved Tapan Dasgupta. She felt dejected throughout her life and harbored a feeling of hurt because Tapan apparently looked upon her more as a sibling, or as a friend. The four feet Meghna was very smart and good at everything she did, like painting, sawing, cooking; she was good at studies too, but she never got the kind of attention she expected from Tapan. Reason? She never asked. Tapan was her and Mrinal’s friend. Mrinal and Meghna were twins. Very big Marwari family; the eldest brother Sanjay was in the US, then Mrinal and Meghna followed by another twins, Rajesh and Rina. Strange that both Meghna and Rina had the same height, but were successful in whatever they did, be it studies or acquiring vocational skills; from gardening to keeping the house clean to learning Japanese, they showed early signs of ideal homemakers. Their parents were divorced long ago. While Mrinal and Meghna stayed with their father in a rented flat in Deshapriya Park, Rajesh and Rina stayed in their mother’s huge bungalow in Gariahat with her. Tapan was Mrinal’s and Meghna’s classmate, he became a part of their family sooner than he could imagine. He found it rather interesting that despite being divorced, Mrinal’s parents literally stayed together all the time. It was really a privilege to be in the middle of such an emancipated couple, he thought. While Mrinal's father wanted to involve Tapan in their family business in Kolkata, his mother also took a liking on Tapan; she would write beautiful poems in Bengali which she’d expect him to edit. Tapan always obliged. 

All the members of the family, including Sanjay, thought it was obvious for Tapan to be a part of their family, which he was. While the two were talking at the Airport, little dialogues kept popping up from the past, as silent ghosts.

‘Meghna, I want to tell you something. There’s this girl called Madhumita.’

‘Who Tapan? The one in our class?’

‘Ah, you got it right… I think I am in love with her.’

‘Okay! Great, but don’t forget she is also Bhattacharya, you had a miserable experience with Shipra some months ago…and you said you were done with the Bhattacharyas…remember?’

‘Ha ha ha!! Maybe it is predetermined! But other than that, do you approve?’

‘Yes why not?’

‘Thanks Meghna!’

Meghna’s family had a huge farmhouse in the outskirts of Kolkata. All her friends, including Madhumita and Tapan went there to spend some time; it so happened that Tapan proposed to Madhumita in her farmhouse. Before their marriage, the Agarwals invited the couple in the BRC (Bengal Rowing Club).

‘You have your father and brother? What does your father do?’

‘Yes Rajesh! My brother is in Class IX. Father is working in a Pharmaceutical company; as a General Manager.’

‘So… how well do you know Tapan (smiles)?’

‘I know I am not his first love, neither is he mine.’

(Taken aback) ‘But we feel cheated.’

‘Cheated?’ Tapan intervened, he didn’t understand. He asked, ‘why do you say so Munna (Rajesh’s ‘pet’ name)? Who has cheated you? Please let me know. I cannot see the family cheated.’

They sat at the Airport looking at each other, didn’t take much time to rewind and talk in their usual way. Meghna, like most of her siblings, except Mrinal, never got married. She is an event Manager; others have set up a firm in Rajasthan; they have all left Kolkata. Her mother still lives in Gariahat, visits the children off and on, writes poems, perhaps still expects someone to edit them. Her father is no more; he died not as a husband, but surely as the most perfect father and probably as the most beloved best friend. Meghna still thinks like Rajesh. Deep inside she feels Tapan should eventually have to repent. Just before leaving:

‘Oh I forgot to ask, how is Madhumita?’

‘She’s fine. Thanks!’

‘And how’s your daughter?’

‘She’s fine too…thanks Meghna…it was great catching up with you… a BIG hi to everyone in the family!’ Saying this he hurried towards the gate… couldn’t listen to her last question though:

‘What's your daughter's name? Is she tall?’

Sky is the limit

‘Excuse me Madam, you cannot board the plane.’

‘What? How dare you say that? I have a conference to attend. I am getting in.’
‘Madam, we will have to de-plane you then.’
‘I will sue you.’

Ananya was disallowed to board. She did her masters in History and was going to Delhi from Kolkata to attend a conference alone. This would have been her first flight, but it didn’t happen. Dejected, she goes and sues the Airline. It took her quite some time to win the case; but she did.

‘You must be very happy now! We won the case! It’s our success’, roared an entire team of friends.

But Ananya wasn’t happy. Fighting for the case seemed to be a failure. More than anything, the mindset has to change. All these years, she thought of herself as a success story of her school The Spastics Society, but that was long ago. Now she seemed disillusioned. Will she ever be able to commute alone, move up and down the unwelcoming stairs without feeling obliged to strangers. She looked at the sky that was about to rain and pondered if an Ananya 100 years later willl still  have to fight like this, as she drove back home.

Cheers!

‘Please tell her I am with you! You don’t know my mom, she’ll tell my dad and he will kill me if he ever found me drinking in a pub, he's so protective…. Please please…. (to the smiling waiter) Give me an elephant Budweiser…(then to her friends) I am feeling nervous. (she gives the phone to her friend)...here…talk to my mom…please save me, I promise you a treat!'

‘Aunty, don’t worry Sunita is with me, we are working on a project…this Monday is the deadline. What? You want her to return by 8? (Sunita is desperately saying no… Lata sees and nods)…but aunty please allow her to stay with me, we are planning to finish the project by tonight, it will be really late. What? Sure aunty…she will reach in the morning sharp by 8… please aunty please. Thank you aunty, thank you so much.’

At the end of this nail-biting conversation, all friends gave a grand high fiver in the air and burst into a thunderous laughter. Just then, Manjula’s mom called. No one panicked.

‘Hello ma…I will reach very late tonight; around midnight. I am chilling with friends at the pub. Yes ma, I am okay, don’t worry. What? No way! I don’t want baba to come here and wait for me…I don’t know when this’d end… don’t worry …we will come on our own... what? Ha ha ha!!! Obviously we will book a cab. Oh I think I understood what you're trying to say... we made sure no one brought their vehicles, two wheeler or four...so rest assured...and ma...I am sorry I should have called. Love you.’

Western influence

Catherine was French. She spent 35 years in Kolkata; although heavily accented, she could speak Bengali with a native comfort; because she spoke in the language of Rabindranath and Bankim, her register made us listen to her as though we’d listen to a song we lost through the years. We loved listening to her, most of all because what she spoke at various conferences and seminars on social reformation and transformation also made sense. Her core competency is Bengali; she has read all the classics and also the contemporaries. More than a writer, she calls herself an activist.

It’s over to Catherine now. Catherine?

Thank you all very much. Yes I have been asked to talk about the ills of western influence; we see the younger generation dressing and talking like the West, partying and drinking like them; indeed it was never our culture (she stresses on the possessive adjective). I have promised to make this session more interactive, I will not speak much. I will ask you two questions, maybe uncomfortable I don't know (she seemed so authentically French here) and then ask you to respond; with an open mind. So please 'lend me your ears'.

She looked serious and sad. 

Q.1 Who is ensuring the accessibility and why?

Q.2 Why does India encourage night shifts for children to work at a time they should rest? When these children get tired and want to enjoy at pubs drinking, partying to communicate something stark to the adulterated world, who criticizes them? Does the western world also get influenced and do night shifts?

Her questions dropped as pins in the middle of the silent audience.

Negotiation

‘I have constipation. Bowels come in bits and pieces you know. Shapes are like nuts, sometimes like sausages. Even after being in the bathroom for hours I feel I have not fully cleared; even if I go now, something will come out. Weird sounds (puckered face). Bad smell! What about you?’

‘Oh I have loose motion you know. All the time I have sound in my stomach. See. (He takes his hand and lets him feel the sound.) Did you feel that? (He nods his head as if to say yes yes I do, and smiles) When I look at it before flushing, it looks like yellow kind of drinks, with bubbles.’

It was futile to interrupt the jugalbandi of two grandpas, mine and hers, who became instant friends. How they initiated the conversation I don’t remember. But I do remember my parents brought me to visit the girl’s house to finalize the date of marriage. The atmosphere became weird as far as I could smell; the two mothers were sternly looking at their spouses who were escaping gazes, looking at the wall, the ceiling. The most senior members were smiling and looking at the delicious plates on the table; they looked eager to take their bites and sips on the foods and drinks that were served.

Note:
Jugalbandi – is a performance in Indian classical music, especially in Hindustani classical music, that features a duet of two solo musicians. The word jugalbandi means, literally, "entwined twins."

                                                            

The leap

‘I am surprised to know this about myself! I never knew I could write. But talking to you I recollected the poem that won the appreciation from someone who hated me, Ms. Narayan, our science teacher. Of course it was Venkatachalan who got the accolades because I wrote the poem, ‘The ungreatful moon’, for him. Let me spell it out for you ha ha ha! The spelling mistake was corrected by her while she was profusely praising the lines you know. She was praising me, wasn’t she! Now I realise why I never make spelling mistakes; I always check.’

‘I must also confess something. Although I am known as a black sheep, a bad apple, an outcast by many, chatting up with you was cool. It helped me rediscover myself. I made Pari smile. During Vishwakarma puja*, my friend, a next door neighbor looked pensive; he did not have money to buy kites. I had money the day before from my visiting aunt from Delhi. I took him to the market, bought two kites, threads with latai (thread reel). We went to the rooftop and started flying kites; I was holding the reel, encouraging him. We won and lost and won a number of times fighting the flying game. (Smiles)'

They were complete strangers a night ago. By sheer accident, came to the echo point of this hill station in South India, Kodaikanal* in the middle of the night to take a leap into its lap and end their lives. There, the whole night they sat around reading to each other bits and pieces of their past. Now, with the dawn, they are climbing down to the city holding hands, to face life. Once again.


Notes:
Vishwakarma puja - the god of work, celebrated one month before Durga Puja. It means a holiday for all menial labourers, small and big businesses, for children it is an occasion to celebrate flying kites.
Kodaikanal - it is a hill station which is famous for its beauty, the smell of eucalyptus trees and also for its echo point; it is said that the voice can be heard very clearly for a long duration

The anniversary

Till death do us part, we promised each other in our honeymoon at Conoor, in South India.

Twenty-five years! What am I still doing in office! I should be there with her now. I am well equipped; a diamond ring, a diamond necklace, earrings and a bright yellow kanjivaram, its dark green borders promising the evergreen forest in the most predictable sunshine; I remembered my honeymoon, post Conoor, lost in the wilderness of Periyaar; what must she be cooking?  We decided to spend the night at home; the place we begun our journey. I am driving along, but why am I feeling so uncomfortable, as though in a crowd I wondered.

With me behind the wheels, things we did together flashed. Raising our child, taking care of the bank balance, looking after our parents, travelling twice a year; into the jungles of Kenya in August to watch the migration of animals from Tanzania to Kenya, to the snow-clad Himalayas to the most romantic involvement - that of preparing good food together at home. Picture perfect, our friends would say. She had been a housewife throughout, took up a job just three years ago when we sent our child to a nearby city for further studies. I changed my gear listening to Frank Sanatra in my travelling mind, thinking of the tender moments when we promised to be with each other till death and beyond, and of course how we’d grow old together. We drenched in the rains, dried in the sun, spent hours on the beach, on the bench of some obscure parks, in the mountains; regularly visiting places, hitting the cinema halls with popcorn and coke; on the whole a fulfilling journey. Not to forget our long conversations that went on for hours over anything under the sun.

Since I had to travel frequently for my job chasing for a better career, more visibility, there were times when we’d be in different cities for months; she was taking care of the home and me trying to earn more of what was better than sunshine. She knew how much I hated staying alone, months of opening the doors with my keys, entering a strange place to rest at night and leaving the next day to work, leading a life of a married bachelor, a very modern trend, just postponing staying in the warm company of the family set up with care and concern.

For me ringing the doorbell was a fascination… I remember everyone’s worried face when I had rung only once… they thought something was seriously wrong, either I lost my job or I was seriously ill…for in the normal circumstances, I would go ding dong ding dong ding dong; my angry child would say, ‘uff Baba, coming…stop it… you are quite grownup now, she’d then open the door to follow with the warmest huge hug where her mother would invariably join; Shadow, our pet would also struggle and surely find a place somewhere in between, with a woof woof;  and in that hug I would smell her apron, replete with food smell, flowers, incense sticks; all together would make her the queen of the family; in that hug I would discover my world again and again.

I am already in my neighborhood, just five minutes drive and I will be home… but why is the seat not so comfortable, I thought for a moment; I could already sense what she was cooking; could smell her along with the food. I will dress her first, ‘no one could do the pleats like you’, she would say. I would bend down on my knees and ask her how many pleats she wanted; I remember for silk sarees there would be more pleats than the ones in cotton or the tangail she’d say with pride! I would fold it patiently and very gently as though I would pleat the years that went by!

Coming from office, when I honked, the first thing I’d hear was a woof woof and then a warm screech meant for my child…open the door baby…Baba has come!

Yes I have reached my new home where I now stay with my memories. I parked my car long ago; silently opened the door with my keys. Imagination of good food, gifts, warmth of the hug and the woof, job; all ended one after the other; the phase of my splendid honeymoon was over last year. I have just returned from a long directionless journey on the bus to celebrate the first anniversary of separation today.

Another world

Oh, his Adam’s apple was so disturbingly attractive! For quite some time, I wasn’t able to concentrate on what he was trying to say. It moved up and down, like the face of a peacock hiding behind the bush and then peeking again, from the well-groomed white formal shirt’s collar holding a silk blue stripe tie that went so well with a formal gray pair of trousers; I could see his pomme d’Adam appear and disappear in every second mellowing the sound that was originating from his well-defined broad gorge. Undoubtedly, he was gorgeous! While his shoulders, muscles, and postures told me he dates with the gym every single day, his English was another reason any girl my age would fall for. 'Good morning young lady, this is Dr. Makhon Mukherjee, I feel fortunate to be in your company for some time.' Outrageously flirtatious, he laughed when he knew the purpose of my visiting the place, a 650 acre protected space for those unfortunate men and women on whom I wanted to write my lines.

'Yes they move freely here, there aren’t any restrictions for as long as they are not hurting themselves or anybody else. I would like to give a background first of what we think of them and then take you around, we do this with all visitors, so they can at least empathize, some of them even think they could have been here too, a cathartic experience you know miss?'

'Vaijayanthi', I said.

'Thank you, Miss Vajayanthi, (it felt good to hear my name from a husky voice, he must be in his mid-forties, else how’d he get this affectionate way of talking I wondered)… The line between sanity and insanity is so marginal that anyone could lose it anytime, don't you think?'.

'True!'

'Come with me.'

I followed him. Saw a lady in front of a mirror plucking her eyebrows. The background was that she was about to leave with her husband to celebrate, for the first time, their ninth wedding anniversary; her husband had booked the most expensive seat of a well-known five-star hotel that became famous introducing a space called lover-corner, the most cherished arena for lovers to spend some romantic moments. The husband, on his return from office, was supposed to pick her up in the evening; his blue Merc met with an accident, he died on the spot because of a reckless young brat who was on the high driving with friends. A long stick made of polystyrene was lying on her bed. In a minute I saw her taking the stick and hitting a young boy, an appointed servant whom I thought was no less than an activist, acting like a reckless driver.

Bhavin (the boy) took the beatings from Swati and bled tomato sauce from his head, shoulders, everywhere. I heard her cry Shantanu, a sound that would stay with me until it found an expression on the pages, I promised myself. Now this scene would be enacted then on every alternate day, doctors thought it was a remarkable improvement because earlier it was done twice a day, Swati was slowly losing her tenacity to be a part of it which, in clinical terms, meant she was gaining more and more on sanity, they observed.

Out of nervousness, I held the doctor’s hand, he sheltered me for a moment and left it slowly saying 'easy young lady…easy'.

I visited both, the criminals charged with rape as well as the victims, the tortured and the torturers all deranged in their own ways, talking to people seeking forgiveness, pelting specially designed stones for Bhavins to absorb. Felt an excruciating pain running up and down my nerves while I was taking notes and recording his voice, but I was also happy to know of the existence of such a healing place that was taking care of the sinners and the sinned in the same way.

Suhas was thrown out of his job on grounds of sexual harassment. He was innocent because Susmitha, the one who complained against him, had come later and confessed to Suhas saying the case was orchestrated by their common manager Asif Iqbal who wanted Suhas out apparently appeared as his manager's potential threat. Asif also influenced senior leaders like Lakshmi, Shubha, to team up against Suhas. He was not only thrown out, but he was also escorted out by their HR, like a convict. No, but this was all enacted to heal Suhas, shocked into derangement; whether he was innocent or not was known because Susmitha never came and confessed! Neither did the other stakeholders; they were far too occupied, moving out on the loose in society as normal human beings to engage themselves in healing Suhas, all this was staged regularly to heal a deranged soul, I learned. Suhas, in one moment, would laugh and say, 'Look they are escorting me out, I am an important person you see. They love me, they take care of...' and in another moment...' you brutes...for heaven's sake... didn't I know you were teaming up against me? You did that because my salary was too high, wasn't it? Didn't I ask you to reduce my salary...just to be there with you...but to get rid of me, you made such a heinous ploy! You need to be brought to book for my character assassination..you scoundrels!'

After spending hours with the doctor, in his company, with his kind of vivid and engaging description, he points out Dr. Sen to me, fat and bulky, who was smiling and watching us from the first floor’s balcony. He said Dr. Sen would walk me through the remaining area that was at the other end of an open compound. 'Not fair', I thought. In a moment, I felt the arrival of Dr. Sen and the departure of Dr. Mukherjee at the same time, as though I was watching a film.

While leaving Dr. Mukherjee told me that he wished he could accompany me till the end, but he wouldn’t be able to do so as that would mean him crossing the compound exposed to the scorching sun, that despite the umbrella he always carried with him, his throat if exposed to the sun, would surely melt as it was made of butter.

The first thing I learned from Dr. Sen was that all this while I was with a patient who lives in his world with the fear of being exposed to the sun. I wish him to recover soon. While it was sad, but it was also fascinating to experience a glimpse of another world. 

The Child is the Mother of the Woman

Wednesday 23 August, 1995

'I have a bad news for you Stitodhi. Your sister Raka passed away, Anup has rushed to the spot, he has asked me to inform you about this; I am very sorry…your aunt’s daughter, wasn’t she?…So she must be your cousin, but Anup was telling me your sister passed away…I was a little confused…because as far as my knowledge goes….'

Stitodhi stopped listening to his colleague 2000 hours ago. 'Raka, no more' and she being referred to in the past tense enough for him to switch off! How must be the baby, did she deliver? He knew she was extremely scared of her pregnancy…she told him 'Unto, (Stitodhi's 'pet name', …Bongs have two names, one for the family members and friends and one for the professional world) what if I never return? Tomo (her husband, Tomonash) will not be able to take it.' 'Oh, shut up', he yapped…'gone are those days Raka when such unfortunate things happened!'

From the office to the hearse, he kept on meandering from one folder to the other, of past memories;

hide and seek of childhood days,
reading stories together in the lazy winter afternoons,
having oranges and squeezing the skin onto each other’s eyes,
a routine monthly visit from his school to their place,
Pishibhai’s (maternal aunt’s) mouth-watering dishes,
ভাই-ফোঁটা (bhai-phota),
a festival after deepawali where sisters put a bindi of chandan
(paste of sandalwood) on the forehead of their brothers wishing them long lives,
her grand wedding.

Memories flashed like steps with huge blanks on either side, wide hollow spaces he could climb up and down. In the mind it also patterned like a prosaic poem, a brain bank where the death is soon to be refreshed for good.

His first encounter of Raka’s hearse was when he saw her eyes closed, white smiling horrid face, (he wondered why) being taken by four men on খাটিয়া (khatia, the death bed; back in those days, in 1995 this was still the norm of the extreme poor and the extreme rich, to take the body on the shoulders to the cremation ghat). He looked at the body (Raka, a marvelous name that meant full-moon, chosen with great care, after searching thousands we were told when we grew up, has been replaced as ‘body’), and in a moment her laughter ran into him, much faster than the smells of those incense sticks which, to him, didn’t seem to make any sense.

When she laughed, her belly also laughed with her, in fact her whole body chortled, it was infectious and made everybody around laugh, it enlightened the whole atmosphere, could make anyone laugh for no reason at all, her brother Rahul (sorry cousin again…form her father’s side!) came upto him and said, 'Unto it seems like হাস্যকৌতুক (hassokoutuk, stand-up comedy) that we are carrying Raka at the wrong place at the wrong time, isn’t it?' 

She was laughing at him..ha ha ha!!! Unto….আমি আসি (ami asi, Unto, I am leaving… expecting him, as it were, to hide her flip flops… uff Unto, where did you hide them, I am getting late…please for God's sake), there she was now, above everyone, beyond everything, writing in thin air her own departure.

Raka went away leaving her daughter, her Tomo and all her dreams behind.

Stitodhi was thinking of her husband Tomonash, a professor of philology, a very nice and kind-hearted gentleman. After marriage, an arranged one, they were madly in love with each other; we are রাজজোটক দাদা, (rajjotok, we are made for each other, dada meant Stitodhi); he was obsessed with ঠিকুজি-কুষ্টি, (thikuji-kusti, everything is about horoscope, he would say). Stitodhi was determined to be by his side, but before that he should meet his Pishibhai, he thought.

'খুনি!খুনি!খুনি!আমার মাইয়াটারে গলা টিইপ্পা মারসে..শয়তান…আমি অরে ফাসিকাঠে ঝুলামু (Khuni! Khuni! Khuni! Amar mayatare gola tiippa marse…shoitaan…ami ore phasikathe jhulamu, these were the very words of the mother yelling about her son-in-law meaning Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! He has strangled my daughter to death… culprit… I will hang him…and it continued…

...আমার মা-বাপরা সাধ কইরা কিনা আমার নাম রাকসিলো অশ্রু, কী যাতা রুসি…বসর বসর কুকুর-বিালের মত বাস্সা বিয়ানো, আর মাইয়া হইলে নাম দেওন অশ্রু, কৈ অরা  কৈ, ডাক অগো…অরে আন্টু…এক্কেরে মাইরা ফালাইল আমার মাইয়াটারে…এক্কেরে মাইরা ফালাইল…সব আমার মায়ের দোষ…সে
আপত্তি করতে পারল না…কেমন মা…মেয়েরে অশ্রু বইলা ডাকে…অরে আন্টু..অরা অশ্রুরে মাইরা ফালাইল! (Amar ma bap shadh koira kina amar naam rakhsillo OSRU, ki jata rusi…bochor bochor kukurbiraler moto bachha biyano…r me hoile naam deon OSRU… koi ora koi… dako ogo…ore Unto…ekkere maira phalailo amar mayatare…ekkere maira phalailo…shob amar maier dosh…she apotti korte parlo na…kemon ma…meyere OSRU boila dake… ore Unto..ora OSRU re maira phalailo! My parents, with great hopes, named me OSRU, what bad taste…… naming me OSRU, huh… breeding every year like cats and dogs…and when a girl is born, you name her OSRU?...where are they…summon them …. O Unto… they killed my daughter completely…they killed her completely, everything is my mother’s fault…she could have protested… what kind of a mother was she…to be calling her own daughter OSRU…O Unto… they killed OSRU!'

OSRU means tears.

All he could make out from the incoherent speech was that she was shocked, for he was unable to understand if it was the mother crying for her daughter, or the daughter complaining against her mother…'what is happening to the motherless daughter that is born of Raka', a thought burnt in him for a moment, like those incense sticks and those garlands clinging on to the dead mother, some hours old by then. 

His Pishibhai was howling for the untimely loss of her daughter, she was also imagining her own death, with her. Needless to say she was put on sedation. In between her clinically governed sleep, she would scream saying,

‘আমার মেয়ে ‘যা তা, যা তা’ বইলা মরসে, খুনিটা অরে যাতা করসিল (Amar meye ‘jata’ ‘jata’ sesh kotha boila morse…khunita ore jata korsilo…

My daughter’s last words were ‘jata’ jata’ (means disgusting, horrible), the murderer must have tortured my daughter.’

'Why is she talking about her son-in-law like this, he was the best of the best, Raka herself was scared, she may not have wanted to die…maybe that was the reason she said disgusting', he thought, it made perfect sense to him to understand why she had that horrid look on her face! But at the same time he did not have the heart to judge Raka’s mom at the moment. Who would!

Five years passed by. Pishibhai never met Tomonash, neither his daughter, which also meant her grand-daughter…nobody dared to judge her. ‘খুনি, খুনি, খুনি (Khuni! Khuni! Khuni!...Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!’ - this was her refrain until she died in 2005.

Yes, Stitodhi knew it was an overdose of anesthesia… which happens in very rare circumstances. Some relatives suggested suing the nursing home for their negligence for a second or a third degree murder he wouldn’t know, but Stitodhi said there was no point, already Tomonash was shattered, wounded and broken, with a daughter to take care of; he doesn’t deserve all this he reckoned. When he went to the nursing home, he met the unfortunate anesthetist Sujata, also the matron, Dr Jibon, the owner of the nursing home and a whole lot of them willing to bear all the consequences for their inattention that cost Raka’s life. They were all good people, contrite and shocked; per their records, that was the first case ever, so what was the point… besides Raka, his wife, to whom he was devoted, will not come back. Therefore Stitodhi, together with Rahul, Anup da, Shampa di (Raka’s cousin) and others decided to call it off.

After Pishibhai’s death, on one late evening, he thought of visiting his brother-in-law. Strangely a flabbergasted Dr Jibon opened the door, Stitodhi also heard a female voice from inside…’দাদা, কে এসেছে গো, ও এল? (Dada ke  esechhe go…O elo?) Brother, who has come? Is it him?’

Stitodhi and Dr Jibon for a moment gawked at each other, buried questions of the yore surfaced in their glances like furious mindless waters breaking through a dam, flooding the neighborhood; words seemed redundant; Stitodhi ran away hurriedly from the place without meeting anyone; it was pointless to inform the dead son-in-law about the dead mother-in-law, who was dead a decade ago, he could have easily informed him over telephone, but his number somehow got deleted in time, he also had this urge of meeting his niece who must be 10 years by then, he thought; but it was good he came; otherwise how could he witness that, nothing died, all the doubts were sleeping inside, perhaps waiting to come out at the nth time… he remembered why they actually backed out from the case… for it would also mean Tomonahs’s harassment, Sujata was Tomonash’s childhood friend; remembered him recounting once that they couldn’t get married because his parents never approved of it, Dr Jibon and his sister were very poor at the time and belonged to a lower caste;  so this ‘jata’ may not have meant disgusting, it could have meant Sujata; but he still thought it was the right thing because of Raka’s  daughter, did she deserve all that; the newborn child who would grow up linking her auspicious birthdays with her mom’s death, who would have the heart to put her father behind the bars too?

As he stepped down, he remembered the horrid face of Raka, angry tears refused to leave his eyes, clouded him, each stair, he counted twenty-three, his childhood fascination was to count stairs, now he could have skipped some, they were trying to tell him something bouncing the words of his Pishibhai, Osru, a name she so disliked.

Climbing down those stairs he also played the childhood staircase game holding the banisters, the house-garden game with Raka and others… does her child ever play these games… with whom does she play; with her step-siblings…how horribly they erred; instead of bringing his Pishibhai into confidence they were putting her in sedation, ashamed at the preconceived notion of a deranged mother shocked with her loss and naturally speaking non-sense, she was speaking sense, wasn’t she.

The last time he talked with Tomonash was six months after Raka’s death, on the child’s মুখেভাত (mukhebhat, also called অন্নপ্রাসণ, ‘Annaprashana’, a Hindu rite of passage ritual that marks an infant's first intake of food other than milk; the term annaprashan literally means "food feeding" or "eating of food" usually fed by Mamu or maternal uncle who also has the right to name the child) Stitodhi was invited, he declined because Pishibhai took an oath from him that he would never see Raka’s murderer; but while talking to Tomonash, he suggested that the child be named Sujata, (means birth) the name made so much sense to him at the time; he distinctly recollected Tomonash’s vehement disapproval, ‘No! Never!’ and his abruptly ending the call; they never spoke again. Those stairs that belonged to Tomonash, where his sister Raka also walked up and down for some time, seemed to have taken him back in time, appeared endless, took him almost a decade to climb down and have his feet on the ground.

He came out. Through the moonlit night, he felt Raka, could clearly see a closed chapter he has to reopen for the sake of his sister. He discussed the matter with Anup da, Rahul, Shampa di and others, but the grief it seemed had died an inevitable death in the hands of time.

The case was easily dismissed as a frustrated attempt by an irresponsible brother, a cousin so to speak, to malign a respectable family ten years later with a hidden agenda of extracting money besides a definitive motive of character assassination. 

Thus Stitodhi came into writing, like a beginner in the beautiful arena of pages, his first lines emerged climbing down the steps of the world, his feet to be deeply rooted happily ever after in the ground of a beautiful garden, that of fiction

Laws have their claws
that break the jaws
of the innocent with guffaws
foolproof, without flaws.

Now, in 2018, twenty-three years later, Stitodhi’s lost case was brought in black and white from his archive of thoughts, like those skeletons in the cupboard despite his clumsy style of writing, thanks to the encouragement he received from some of his well-meaning, indulgent sibling-friends he made on the virtual space who said he could at least write, just like them, about the unfinished story of his Pishibhai Osru and his sister, Raka.

But how would he name the story… Making of an artist seemed so much eclipsed with self… he is not into all that anymore… with a narrow escape from the prison on grounds of defamation by his once-upon-a-time brother-in-law, who, with his ex-lover, now his second wife, would have been brought to book for the cold-blooded murder of Raka twenty-three years ago, Stitodhi  has become bolder; he decides therefore to borrow the title from Wordsworth. He thinks a little shift in the gender would best go as the name of this absurd fiction.

He will have its birth in print and let the burning story see its day, so it rests in peace in a virtual space on and from Sunday 14 January 2018.

Based on a true story.