Ways

Sunil gets home tired. He rings the doorbell. Gets no response. Keeps on ringing. Then, reluctantly takes the key from his bag and opens the door. He needs a hot cup of tea. He shouts, ‘Where the hell are you Prapti? Prapti, his wife, doesn’t respond. Sunil yells, ‘Prapti where are you?’ He goes to the bedroom, doesn’t find her, goes to the kitchen, to the loo, then looks for her on the balcony, in the Puja room, but doesn’t find her anywhere. ‘Where could she be?’, he wonders. He calls her on her mobile but finds her out of the coverage area. Tries again, but in vain. ‘Has she gone to meet someone? Who?’, he wonders. Left with no choice, he goes to the fridge, and looks for the milk so he could make the tea himself; When he doesn’t find the milk, he becomes suspicious. Disturbing voices appear, ‘No time to buy milk? Was she in so much of a hurry, huh?’ Furious, he bangs the fridge, throws his laptop, leaves the house, and heads for the nearby teashop, and gulps down two hot cups of tea. Learns from the tea vendor that a guy came and took his wife on a motorbike. He spends around five minutes talking to the vendor trying to find out more about the guy. ‘You can keep the change’, he says and walks away. Just when he enters his flat, he hears a motorbike. Within minutes he sees Prapti running up the stairs with a bouquet. He slaps her and drags her inside. All the neighbors could hear was, ‘Shut up, whore, go to hell, how dare you hurt me, there's no way I can stay with you. No way'. 

…

Senthil gets home tired. He rings the doorbell. Gets no response. ‘Preeti must be asleep’, he thinks, takes his key, and silently enters the flat. He needs a hot cup of tea. He goes to the bedroom and then looks for her everywhere. When he doesn’t find her, he thinks of making the tea himself. He goes to the fridge but doesn’t find the milk. ‘Preeti must have left in a hurry, she didn’t even have the time to buy milk, what could have happened,’ he thinks and calls her on her mobile but is not able to get through. ‘Idea!’, he says, and immediately goes out and buys milk, he also gets some samosas and quickly gets home. He learned from the vendor that his wife was out with a guy who came and took her on his motorbike. ‘Yes, I know,’ he says and rushes back home. While the milk is boiling, he quickly has a shower; comes back, makes tea, and pours it in the kettle. He hears the sound of a motorbike. The doorbell rings. Preeti comes in with a bouquet and goes straight to the puja room.

Senthil, ‘Please come fast, I have made tea and there’s also samosa.’

Preeti, ‘Coming! I am feeling hungry. Thank you.’

In the puja room, she has no idols, but a beautiful saying which, in English translates like this: ‘Situations or persons you receive every day are God’s gift to you and the way you respond to them is your gift to God.’

She never ceases to surprise me

She still surprises me. Is that true for you too?

In my neighborhood, there are no good tea shops. By tea shops, I mean shops from where you can buy good tea leaves. So, as a routine I buy good tea leaves from a place which is quite far; that is why I sometimes ask my friend, who works in the locality, to bring 100 grams of tea every time he visits my place. Subsequent to her approval, this had become the standard norm. Since the tea was of good quality, it had become a regular practice.
It was only when my friend was a little under the weather that I had to add buying good tea leaf in the list of things to buy. I was very suspicious, primarily because I knew she will not approve. Incidentally, she came from a family of wholesale tea sellers, her grandfather had five such big shops in the prime localities of Kolkata. So, therefore, she was naturally squeamish about tea; about good tea. But I thought I would give it a try, not because my tastes in tea, or in anything for that matter, were validated or sanctioned by her, but I thought that staying with her might have given me some sense of understanding of the difference between a good tea and a bad one; there was nothing in-between for her, it was either bad or it was good. The other day, while I was on my morning walk, by a stroke of luck, I chanced upon a closed shop where it was written:

‘Good Assam and Darjeeling Tea, available right here. Shop open from 10.00 a.m. to 8.30 p.m.'

I was overjoyed! How could I have missed this for so many years, I thought to myself. Very soon I realized that it was because I changed my normal route because the one I followed was going through some ‘travaux’. But wasn't God kind enough to show me exactly what I had in mind? I was taken aback. I was even more surprised when the tea was approved by her as good tea. 

'Ah! Good tea', she said. Two days later followed this heartwarming conversation.

‘This is good tea, but from where did you get it?’

‘Right from here, can you imagine!’

‘Can you show the shop to me?’

‘Sure’.

She decided to go for an evening walk with me, which was a BIG time favor by the way, because she seldom accompanies me for my walks.

Eventually, she saw the shop.

‘Oh! Is this the shop? But they are selling other things as well?’

‘Yes, so what?’

‘So what? Are you out of your mind? An authentic tea shop doesn’t sell anything other than tea; don’t you know that? Those wooden boxes with holes at the right-hand corner? Only those are authentic teashops. This man is selling tea and other stationery things too? How can this be good?’

‘But you said you liked the tea, didn’t you?’

She did not respond to that. There was no more exchange of dialogues between us. We came back, went for the shower. The tea was served.

She sipped and snapped, ‘It’s bad tea, I don’t like it.’

That was the end of the story. She is like that. She has the right to her opinion. I like her just the way she is, that's what makes her special and my task at hand so challenging. She never ceases to surprise me.

But for the benefit of my readers, especially those who are outside of Kolkata, here are some photos that would help you understand what her 'image' of an authentic tea shop was!

Not this!

Discovery

'Is this a story?
Or is it simply 
A discovery,
I wonder.

We are traveling
Through the moments,
We stop and restart alone,
We wander.

Will these lines
Aspire to become dialogues,
Or will they remain monologues
Of a lonely writer?' 

As I was reading his poem from his diary, I thought of how reticent he was as a boy. Sushanta was not a simple guy you’d find next door; he was known as someone who was very opinionated, outspoken; he had intolerance towards social injustices, like gender inequality, racial discrimination, and, above all. towards meaningless disputes. For him, all disputes are naïve and ignorant.

When Sushanta was doing his research on Jean-Paul Sartre’s diaries he wrote during his mobilization, the arrogant Indian got into a severe dispute with his Camusienne professor in Montpellier. Her name was Madame Audin who was always against anything that had to do with Sartre. Sushanta’s guide, Monsieur Dutrand, often laughed at the mild irritation he saw on his face every time Madame Audin would refer to him as 'Un Sartrien indien'! He found this dispute meaningless because, according to him, both were excellent and right in their own ways. If Camus didn’t subscribe to engaged literature, it doesn’t mean Sartre was wrong to have shifted from individualism to socialism. Why can’t both be right, he’d wonder. Sushanta liked Baudelaire, Yves Bonnefoy too, and for this, he was labeled as ‘Un faux sartrien’ (a false Sartrian), by Madame Audin because she thought that no Satrian has the right to take a liking to poetry. He found all these arguments naïve and laughable.

He admired Sartre for his total transformation; his works before and after the mobilisation would seem like works of two different persons. This never meant he had any less appreciation for Camus; they both talked about 'transcendence' didn't they? Why can't readers look at the similarity? The leap? 

Why is he thinking of all these now! After twenty-five years, how are these even relevant? He is completely a different person now. He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t argue, nor does he fight anymore. 

If you believed in the proverb, 'people don’t change, they become more of what they are', you would regard him as an exception.

This is what he wrote in his diary, quote-unquote.

‘For a long time, I believed that to be an intellectual, one has to imagine horrible things about God. I need to say that he doesn’t exist, if I don’t say that, I cannot be considered as an intellectual. So, in order to belong to this group, I have to say I don’t believe in god. By believing in God, I have doubly become a false Sartrian, at least for Madame Audin, wherever she is now! 

I feel so good when I think of God. I have learned many things from him, of which two are very close to my heart, one is, I don’t blame anyone or anything anymore, and the second one is I don’t argue with anyone on anything; god, my friend, tells me that it is a sheer waste of time, it doesn’t get us anywhere. I enter into dialogues, meaningful dialogues, but I shun from arguments. I have also stopped judging; it is such a relief, I never thought I’d be able to achieve this ever in my life. I know I have to work on my addiction for judgement, but I am at it now, all the time. He has also taught me to take care of my organs, what a beautiful learning that is! I choose the sweetest of words, I know how to use my tongue, I use my ears to listen to nature, my eyes to see what is truly beautiful. Whenever I converse with him, I have this feeling of security and acceptance. 

Being with god gives me such a wonderful feeling. I feel so good about myself, about people around me, about the tough situations I face every day. Why should I ever leave him? What do I get by leaving him? Mistrust, disbelief, conceit, hatred, judgements, insecurity? He says all of these acquired qualities are like garbage. Why should I eat garbage? Being with such negative emotions is just like eating garbage. He asks us to relive our original seven qualities, viz. happiness, peace, power, love, purity, knowingness, and bliss. I am slowly discovering all these qualities inside me, but I know ‘I have miles to go before I sleep’, but this journey is totally worth it, for me. It is exhilarating, satisfying, rejuvenating. Socrates says, ‘know thyself’; by this could he have meant, discover thyself?

No, I am not an intellectual anymore
I believe in god, so therefore
Count me out from your list
I have no pretence, to say the least.

I don’t blame you at all
My friend, if ever you fall
I will give you a hand
Till on your feet, you stand.

I will never ever blame you
With you, I will neither argue.
You are here to play
Your role, in your own way.

Your journey is written in your role
So is mine, but I am delighted 
To know I am a soul
I feel united and connected.

Yes, I am now ever ready
To accept you as you are
You see yourself as a body
You are nevertheless, a shining star.’

I recited the nameless poem and closed the diary on Sushanta’s discovery, for good.

From my daughter's diary, on male gaze

I never realized I had a grown-up daughter until I chanced upon her diary that she had left behind, before leaving for Bangalore. I wouldn’t have read her diary, as it is too personal, had I not seen the letter that was addressed to me! I trespassed nevertheless!

'Dear Dad,

I have never ever discussed this with you, it is so embarrassing. But I have a question for you…on male gaze. When I was little, I would go to the playground. Later, while in college, I would commute on the bus, on the train. Everywhere I went I used to feel men staring at me. I couldn’t avoid these terrifying and horrid male gazes. I often wondered as to what the male gaze was and what works as the male gaze theory.

Even today in our neighbourhood, when I just walk out of the house, men loitering in street corners invariably stare, some glance furtively. Some even boldly turn to check me out. Being the object of their gaze has always filled me with shame and embarrassment, as if I were somehow responsible. At times I felt so vulnerable as if they were mentally undressing me! How could I ever have had this conversation with you! So I am writing it here, with the hope that you might read it some time, by mistake, and understand what we are routinely subject to. I couldn't help but wonder if my father also looked at women in this way.' 

In a flash I went back to my younger days when I used to be teased as effeminate for not enjoying the visual treat that the contours of a feminine body could evoke. I had somehow managed to not succumb to peer pressure. I continued reading…

'Before leaving Kolkata, I thought it was possibly the worst place for women. Little did I know that it happens everywhere, all the time, at least in India. There are plenty of male gaze examples. On the whole, they look at girls in dresses in abominable ways; this doesn't mean they spare girls in traditional Indian dresses!

I know, Baba, there are laws against eve teasing, as there are various defined degrees of sexual abuse, but there aren’t any laws that can protect us from these obnoxious gazes. I have a friend who is blacklisted by his group of friends because he refused to participate in this masculine ‘game’. You know Preeti's mom, don’t you? You know what her father told her when she stared back at those guys? He said, ‘Look Durga (her mom’s name), you have to be submissive and humble, you can’t retaliate like that! Good and respectable women never do that, what if they come and violate you? You are a woman and you’ve got to be submissive. They are men, so it’s natural for them to stare like that. Don't provoke them.'

Baba, would you have said the same thing to my mom? You remember what my friend’s mom had said when I had worn a frock to the park? She said my dress wasn’t proper since my legs weren't sufficiently covered! I was just six! But I do remember how you protested!

But what can you do to stop this from happening? You are a scientist, Baba…at least invent some medicine to make us invisible when we are in front of them. You think it is funny? You think I am kidding here? I am bleeding from the inside as I am writing this. Every time I go out and face this. I remember mom telling me the story of Draupadi, how she was molested with looks in The Mahabharata at the behest of elders; not one single voice was raised in protest. They were mere onlookers! We can no longer put up with this, Baba. We are in 2020 now!'

By now I was pensive. My little girl was no longer a child. I had never felt so helpless. I could do nothing to put this behind us. No one can. And I cannot make them invisible either!

Are they still walking the paths of The Mahabharata, like Draupadi?

I turned the page. I read this poem.

Male gaze

O Krishna! There is no law that can protect us from male gaze

We feel awkwardly exposed, harassed, and perpetually out of place.

Can you please make us invisible when

We have to face them willy nilly?

Their hungry, hostile gazes so often 

Tear us apart, they stare at us and bully,

Like Draupadi, we have tears of terror, 

Rolling down our cheeks,
We feel helpless and weak, free us

Dear God, from this curse. 

মেয়ের ডায়েরি থেকে, on male gaze

আমার মেয়ে যে কখন এতো বড় হয়ে গেলো বুঝতেই পারিনি। ও এখন বাঙ্গালোরে। ও নেই দেখে ওর টেবিল ঘাটতে গিয়ে দেখি ও ওর ডায়েরিটাই ফেলে গেছে। একটা পাতা উল্টে গেলো, আমি চমকে উঠলাম, দেখি আমাকেই লেখা।

বাবা,

তোমাকে আমি কখনও বলিনি, আজ বলছি। আমার তোমাদের কাছে একটা প্রশ্ন আছে. male gaze  নিয়ে। তোমাদের, মানে পুরুষমানুষদের কাছে। আমি যখন খুব ছোট ছিলাম, তখন থেকেই দেখতাম আমি যখনি বেরোতাম, স্কুলে বা কলেজে যেতাম তখন পাড়ার মোড়ে, বাসে, ট্রামে ছেলেরা বা লোকেরা আমাদের মেয়েদের দিকে একটা অদ্ভুত ভাবে তাকিয়ে থাকতো, তাদের চাহনি দেখে মনে হতো যেন তারা যেন চোখ দিয়ে আমার জামাকাপড় খুলে ফেলছে। আমি এই কথা তোমাকে কি করেই বা বলি, তাই ডায়েরিতেই লিখছি। কেন এরকম হবে বাবা? তুমি কি কখনো এরকম ভাবে কোনো মেয়েদের দিকে তাকাও? Please তাকিও না। 

থেমে গেলাম। আমার মনে আছে আমি এরকম ভাবে তাকানো অপছন্দ করতাম দেখে বন্ধুরা আমাকে ঠাট্টা করে gay বলতো! এই ভাবতে ভাবতে আবার ওর লেখাটা পড়তে লাগলাম।

এই gaze টা এমনিই একটা ভয়াবহ জিনিস যা আমাদের কাছে একটা বিভীষিকা। আমরা যেখানে থাকি ঠিক সেইখানেই ছেলেরা বসে চা খায় আর জোরে জোরে কথা বলে। আর পাড়া দিয়ে কোন মেয়ে গেলেই আপাদমস্তক দেখে। আর আমরা যারা dress পরি তাদের দিকে এমন ভাবে তাকায় যে মনে হয় ওরা বলছে, 'আয়, তোকে রেপ করি, ড্রেস পরেছিস যখন তখন নিশ্চই ছুঁকছুঁক করছিস?' আর যারা শাড়ি পরে তাদেরও কিন্তু ওরা ছাড়ে না। 

আমি জানি বাবা যে এর বিরুদ্ধে কোনো আইন নেই, থাকলেও সেটা কার্যকরী করা সম্ভব না। যারা এরকম ভাবে না তাকায় তাদের ওরা দলে নেয়না। কিন্তু তাহলে কি করা বাবা, আমরা যে প্রত্যেকদিন ওই চোখের দৃষ্টিতে গুলিবিদ্ধ হয়ে যাচ্ছি! তুমি জানো, চিত্রার মা একবার ঐসব ছেলেগুলির দিকে উল্টে তাকিয়েছিলো বলে ওর বাবা কি বলেছে? বলেছে, তোমাদের নত, নম্র হয়ে থাকতে হবে, তোমরা ওই লোকগুলোর দিকে না তাকালেই পার? তুমি কেন ঘুরিয়ে তাকিয়েছো? ওরা তো তাকাবেই নাহলে আর কিসের পুরুষমানুষ? তুমিও কি এইরকম ভাব বাবা? তোমার মনে আছে বাবা আমার যখন ছ' বছর বয়েস তখন আমি একটা স্কার্ট পড়েছিলাম বলে আমার এক বন্ধুর মা আমাকে কি বলেছিলো? যে আমি কেন এরকম অসভ্যের মতো ড্রেস করেছি? আর তাই শুনে তুমি ঝগড়া করেছিলে? Do you remember? আমরা যে কোনো বয়েসেই স্কার্ট পড়লেই আমরা অসভ্য হয়ে যাই? আর আমাদের দিকে এরকম দৃষ্টি নিয়ে ওরা তাকায় ওদের পৌরুষ দেখানোর জন্য?

বাবা, তুমি তো scientist, তুমি আমাদের জন্য please একটা কিছু ইনভেন্ট করো যাতে আমরা invisible হয়ে যেতে পারি! তুমি কি হাঁসছো ? কিন্তু এটা লিখতে গিয়ে আমি কাঁদছি। I am bleeding from inside! I feel like Draupadi! লোকেদের এই তাকানো আমরা আর সহ্য করতে পারছিনা বাবা! ওরা পাড়ার মোড়ে কিংবা বাজারে বসুক, কিন্তু এরকম ভাবে আমাদের বাজারে যেন না নামিয়ে নিয়ে আসে!

ওর ডায়েরির এই পাতাটা পরে আমার চোখ খুলে গেলো। মেয়ে আমার বড় হয়েছে, অনেক কিছুর মতো এটাও মানিয়ে নিতে হবে, এটা বোধ করি পাল্টানোর নয়, ওকে invisible করে দেবার ক্ষমতাও যে আমার নেই!

বাবা হয়ে নিজেকে এত অসহায় কখনও বোধ করিনি। ওরা কি তবে সত্যিই দ্রৌপদীর মত মহাভারতের পথে আজও হেঁটে চলেছে?

পরের পাতায় দেখলাম এই নিয়ে ওর লেখা একটা কবিতা।

Male gaze

O Krishna! There is no law that can protect us from male gaze

We feel awkwardly exposed, harassed, and perpetually out of place.

Can you please make us invisible when

We have to face them willy nilly?

Their hungry, hostile gazes so often 

Tear us apart, they stare at us and bully,

Like Draupadi, we have tears of terror, 

Rolling down our cheeks,
We feel helpless and weak, free us

Dear God, from this curse. 

Disclaimer

আমার মেয়ে আক্ষরিক অর্থে না নিয়ে মেয়ে হিসেবে নেওয়াটাই প্রার্থনীয়। 

নমিনি

জীবনের এর বয়স ৮২, প্রচুর সম্পত্তির মালিক, কিন্তু দুশ্চিন্তা একটাই, এতো সম্পত্তি কাকে দিয়ে যাবেন? রাস্তা ঘাটে যখন লাঠি নিয়ে বেড়োন তখন চোখকান সজাগ রাখেন, যদি কাউকে পান তো নমিনি করে যাবেন। এই তো সেদিন একটি ছেলেকে দেখলেন গরীবদের জামাকাপড় দিতে, ভাবলেন ওকে ডাকবেন, কিন্তু না ডাকতে গিয়েই পিছিয়ে এলেন, ভাবলেন ও কেন ফোকটে এত্তোগুলো টাকা পাবে? কম ত না...দু কোটি, তার ওপর সোনাই আছে ৬৬ ভরির ওপর, হীরের একটা মুকুটও আছে! তার ওপর তিনতিনটে বাড়ি। যেই বাগান বাড়িতে উনি থাকেন, সেটা তে দেশীবিদেশি ফার্নিচারে ঠাসা। কিন্তু জীবন সেন একদম একা, কেউ কোথাও নেই., যারা ছিল, সবাই গত, খুব কম বয়েসে বিপত্নীক হয়ে ওই একাএকাই থেকেছেন আর দুহাতে শুধু রোজগার করেছেন, ফার্নিচারের ব্যবসা, এখনও রমরমা। মাঝে মাঝে বিষন্ন হয়ে দুয়েক লাইন কবিতাও লেখেন। "আমিই বটে সুখী, আমিই বটে ধনী, আছে বিপুল সম্পত্তি, নেই কোন নমিনী", এই লিখে সেদিন ফুঁপিয়ে ফুঁপিয়ে কাঁদলেন। একদিন ইংরিজিতে একটা পুরো কবিতাও লিখলেন। সেটা আবার ছাপালেনও, একটা ব্লগে সেটা আবার পোস্টও করলেন তারই এক বন্ধুর নাতির সাহায্যে। প্রথমে শুরু করেছিলেন, I have money, but no nominee তারপর সেটা কেমন কৌতুকের মত শোনাচ্ছে বলে অনেক ভেবে চিনতে পরিবর্তন করে ফাইনাল ভার্শনটা এইরকম দাঁড়ালো:

Jibon has lots of money He is 82, has no nominee. Suspicious, alone He doesn’t believe anyone. Horrified with a strange worry! He can neither distribute his wealth To cure poor children’s health Nor can he donate it to anyone unknown; Those enormous fortune is lying locked up As unfortunate prisoners, They are of no use, they are all losers. But Jibon is in search of someone to whom he could hand over the dead fruits before he is gone. এইরকম ভাবে খুঁজে খুঁজেই দিন যায়। কোনোদিন ভাবেন কাগজে বিজ্ঞাপন দেবেন, কোনোদিন ভাবেন অনাথ আশ্রমে বা অন্য কোথাও দান করে যাবেন, কিংবা কোনো এনজিও তে দান করবেন, এইসব নানারকম চিন্তা করেন। কিন্তু কিছুতেই আর কাউকে দিয়ে উঠতে পারছেন না! কিন্তু কবিতাটা লেখার পর তার যা একটা আনন্দ হোল তা তিনি ভাষায় প্রকাশ করতে পারলেন না। একদিন তিনি সেই ছেলেটিকে আবার ডেকে পাঠালেন, শুধু তাকে ধন্যবাদ দেবার জন্য। কী যত্ন করে সে তার লেখাটি হাতে ধরে লিখে, তারপর তা ছাপিয়ে তার সামনে তুলে ধরলেন তারপর তার উদাত্ত গলায় সেটা তাকে পড়ে শোনালেন তা জীবন ঠিক ভাষায় প্রকাশ করতে পারছিলেন না সেদিন। উত্তরে, এ আর এমন কি, বলে সে চলে গিয়েছিলো। একটা ছোট্ট ভাব কবিতায় প্রকাশ করে তিনি সেদিন যা আনন্দ পেয়েছিলেন তা তিনি জীবনে কখনও, এতো ধন সম্পত্তি অর্জন করেও পাননি। দিনতিনেক হলো জীবন সেন মারা গেছেন। তাঁর সমস্ত সম্পত্তি লাওয়ারিশ লাশের মত আটকে আছে ব্যাংকের সেভিংস একাউন্টে, সোনাদানা মণিমাণিক্য আছে লকারে। অনেক আত্মীয়স্বজন দেখা যাচ্ছে ঘুরঘুর করতে চিলশকুনের মত, কাটাছেড়া তো হবেই, কিন্তু আল্টিমেটলি ওগুলো কার বুকের জ্বালা, মুখের খিদা মিটাবে তা কেউ জানেনা। যেহেতু তিনি অন্যতম ধনীদের মধ্যে একজন, তাই অনেক পুলিশের লোকজন, সাংবাদিক ভীড় করেছিলেন তার বাগান বাড়ীতে। হঠাৎই অভাবনীয় ভাবে জীবন সেনের ডেস্ক থেকে কবিতাটি পড়ে চমকে উঠলেন সাংবাদিকরা, তার কবিতাটি শোনা গেলো অনেক নিউস চ্যানেলে। কবিতাটির পিছন পাতায় লেখা ছিল জীবন সেনের শেষ ইচ্ছে। প্রিয় প্রেমানন্দ, তুমি সম্পূর্ণ নির্লোভ, এতো যত্ন করে আমার লেখা ছাপালে, ব্লগে পোস্ট করলে, পড়েও শোনালে তোমাকে ধন্যবাদ জানানোর ভাষা খুঁজে পাচ্ছিনা। আমি এইরকম আনন্দ পেলাম যা লিখে প্রকাশ করতে পারছিনা। আমি তোমাকেই আমার সমস্ত স্থাবর অস্থাবর সম্পত্তি দিয়ে গেলাম। ভাল থেকো আর এইরকম নিঃস্বার্থ ভাবে অন্যদের আনন্দ দিও। আমার নিষ্প্রাণ সম্পত্তি স্বীকার করে করে আমাকে বাধিত করো। ইতি জীবন সেন।

No one

Leela aunty, after lunch, was having oranges in her spacious balcony that overlooked the road that was enjoying its lazy afternoon siesta; there was no one on the road, the Indian Sun seemed very warm and comforting.

“Leela Aunty!”
“Who are you?”
“This is Subrata. Class of 1977?”
“What?”

Leela was referred to as aunty (not aunt) by her students as this was the norm to show respect to teachers back in those days. She leaned from her veranda and saw Subrata, an old man, known as a truant in his teens. She could easily overlook his age and recognise his body language, his smile. In her mind, she saw him in his school uniform and smiled back.

“Wait.” She yelled, “Why don’t you ring the bell. (she screeched to her faithful servant) Debol, open the door!”

“No, no, no aunty. Don’t open the door. I have a train to catch, getting late, I just came to say sorry to you, I misbehaved with you the other day. I am sorry aunty.”

He ran away. She could see him no more. Leela chuckled to herself:

“The other day? The other day indeed! After 42 years! Sorry?”

She threw the skin of the oranges in the bin, which she stored for her skin treatment, also as compost and for various purposes. She jumped out of her skin and called Sushreema from her landline. Subrata she remembers was her classmate.

“Hello Sushreema!”
“Hello aunty, how are you?”
“I am fine. Listen, I hope you remember Subrata?”
“Yes aunty, he was my best friend, shocked to know he had a train accident a while ago and died on the spot. But how did you know Leela aunty.”
“What?”

“I opened the door Leela didi, there’s no one”, Debol replied, waking up from his afternoon slumber.

“Okay, okay, okay! Where is the remote??”, worried Leela screamed and switched on the television, heard the breaking news of a train accident. The number of spot deaths was increasing every minute. She became the newsreader.

Debol knows it's a regular thing that's happening in the house since a long time, her Leela didi did not talk to anyone. The landline, the television, the remote control are dead gadgets occupying the space in Leela’s room since decades. She will simply not let go of anything from her room, her world.

“Who were you talking to Leela didi?” Debol asked.
“Shut up and do your work Debol. I was talking to no one.”

Debol smiled and went off to sleep.