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.