If you live in the southern part of the city or its suburbs, where the languid marshlands are rapidly usurped by boxes made of mortar and concrete, and travel in auto rickshaws for daily commuting, you must have sat in my auto-rickshaw. I drive an auto-rickshaw for living; like thousands of young men of the city, who left their school, midway. I ply between two important squares of south Kolkata. If you are curious to know which one is mine, I`d suggest to take a note of the catchphrases written on the hind screen of the autos. Most of them are littered with cheap and clichéd slogans; but the one with “Love is a quivering happiness” is mine. It`s the only auto rickshaw in the city to bear such a beautiful quote. I doubt if any auto driver has even heard it. Whenever I read the line, a strange sensation rises in my heart; a pleasant but perilous feeling as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice and watching a descending cascade tumbling down into a great depth, which will eventually take me along, crashing into a whirlpool of scattering silvery flakes, the droplets catching the resplendent splinters of the setting sun.

Well, last few weeks were very busy, and I couldn`t find time to share my first published story to my friends and faithful readers.
The upper one is an e book published last week by a group of writers, called WRIMO INDIA. This is a name given to the writers from India, who write a 50000 word strong novel on November, every year in 30 days. The organisation is called NANOWRIMO ( November is the writing month), which is a big non-profit endeavour to inspire and urge the wannabe writers to shake of the procrastination and write regularly. WRIMO INDIA comprises of few hundred writers from India who take the writing challenge every year.
This book, an anthology of 21 short stories, is the outcome of collective decision to write stories on a single theme, vengeance.
So, there are 21 stories of vengeance, each one unique in its own way.
The upper photo is the actual cover page of the ebook, while the photograph showing my story is not there in the book; it`s the image, that came into my head while writing the story. A field, with some shrubs and trees around, the blue morning sky and some broken poles - an eerie feeling that you will get when you finish my story.
Hope you enjoy the literary feast, and if you do, don`t forget to comment. All comments are welcome. 

Courtesans of Karim`s Street by Debotri Dhar

It`s the story of Megan, Dr Megan Adams, an young green-eyed mint fresh academic who had recently accepted a teaching position at Newark, a city tainted with drug, murder and high crime rate. She is a proclaimed feminist, honest and headstrong, but had had made a couple of wrong choices in the past. She fell in love with a debonair professor who is a habitual philanderer. Megan`s sincere compassion for her students had been misinterpreted by her college authorities for which she might have to face disciplinary actions. She is in deep confusion about her relationship with Kevin, her best friend. These are all usual complications of living in a modern society, but as the story unravels we find she has a past - a closely guarded secret, brought to light by an anonymous cuss letter. She undertakes a journey to India in search of the truth and meets Naina, another green eyed woman and realises that she is her step sister, both having been fathered by the same man, Sikander, who was a descendent of the courtesans of Karim`s street.

I am not going to elaborate further on the story as there are many sub plots that should be left for the readers to find out.

Written by Debotri Dhar, an serious academic and feminist who holds degrees from Oxford and Rutgers, the book is a reader’s delight from the first page, especially the readers who are fond of reading elegant prose, unusual metaphors, stunning simile and have an eye for sensory details. The first half, when the conflicts are being built up, is griping. The characters of Stanley, Kevin and Shakuntala are nicely etched, particularly Stanley; he is such a likeable man, big-hearted and witty. But Deborah, Megan`s mother, who has been portrayed as a bored and misunderstood housewife isn't believable; more so when we read how a dignified wife of a career diplomat had sex with a wanton tourist guide. Nowhere the author explained why Stanley was cold to her, more so when we know Deborah had a wretched past, much abused in her childhood but had a loving and caring husband.

Naina, the legitimate daughter of Sikander, is a feisty woman – almost the alter ego of Megan. Her journey is equally fascinating; particularly the bonhomie she shared with Megan unaware of the reality is touching. I liked the moment when two green eyed women break into an impromptu gig of kathak while an onlooker encourages them to carry on. But her music fellowship, that too in the US is hard to believe and comes as forced, imposed upon.

The resolution part has been done in exposition mainly in the form of excerpts from Deborah`s diary which was the weak link of the whole story. It made the reader lose concentration, despite powerful prose. As a reader, one is likely to wonder who wrote the cryptic letter to Megan that kick-started the whole journey, but the author forgets to inform us about it.

However, this is one book, written with utmost care and embellished with a wonderful cover. I strongly recommend the book for them who savour good writing in English, but not the average readers who are in a hurry to devour a story in a period of few hours. I`d rather say that the book has to be sipped slowly like a glass of chilled Chardonnay, and not  gulped down like a shot of tequila.

The Bruised Balsam

This is the story I wrote following Chetan Bhagat`s preface for Write India story competition of TOI in September 2015. The first paragraph is Chetan`s.



She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. ..(Chetan Bhagat`s preface)

The horde of pedestrian on the sidewalk marching in hurry, the mad rush of the week-end traffic racing towards the city centre, were all visible like the long shots of a silent movie. Inside the cafe, under the muted illumination, the air smelled of coffee; the aroma of the roasted beans lingering, masking the smell of raw blood.

What do I do now? She thought. There are only two options. She can jump to her death into the dark waters of the river that is ten minutes walk from here or surrender. In the former case, her story ends in two minutes because she doesn`t know how to swim. Police will register a case of suicide and simply close the case. But if she surrenders, she will be charged for murder in cold blood and hanged, the circumstances that led to the so called man-slaughter being conveniently ignored by the judge.

She knows how judiciary works in this country; how justice can be bought, manipulated by the rich and well connected. Even if she escapes the gallows, a rare possibility of course, she knows she would have to spend rest of her life in the darkness of the dungeon to prove yet again that justice is still blind in this country.

Payel doesn’t like either of the two. She believes her case has enough merit to be considered as legitimate outburst of a woman against tyranny and humiliation. It`s not her fight alone; she represents thousands of women like her who had been denied of their place in the society that had always painted women as object of desire. How can the society accept a monster of a man who plays with the emotions of a simple girl for years and dumps her when time comes marry? It`s a fight she is determined to take on chin up; but to become eligible to fight, she must protect herself and find people to support her. Her mind raced against time for suddenly she became aware of the fact that more than two hours had passed since she had fled the hotel room. It`s hard to believe that no hotel staff had walked inside and discovered the corpse in the midst of puddles of blood that might have congealed into brown jelly by now.

She knew there were enough clues around, and it wouldn’t take long time for the cops to find her out. Every minute is precious; you must decide fast, she told herself. But where will she go? Is there any safe haven for a girl with the city police in hot pursuit of her? She doesn’t know. The world suddenly felt like a savannah with predators lurking behind every dense shrub. As if a fishing net was closing in and soon a pair of invisible hands was going to smother her.

She suddenly noticed the waiter was standing in front of her to clear the table, but wasn’t able to do so because she was still holding the empty mug.

“Oh, I`m so sorry,” she said and withdrew to let the mug be cleared away. She gave him a silly smile and leaned back on her chair. The waiter wiped the table dry with a mop and as he did so, his hand made a couple of sweeping arcs dangerously close to the heaped up scarf. The acute awareness of the blood-stained knife, still wrapped in her scarf lying next to her handbag sent chills down her spine.

Must get rid of this, she thought. This is the only direct evidence that could lead to her arrest and prosecution. Clutching the heap with the knife inside, she struggled to stuff it into her handbag casting alert gaze around if anybody was watching her. The bag swelled up grotesquely in the middle like a precociously pregnant girl. She ignored the prying eyes, paid at the counter and stepped out.

The sidewalk wasn’t crowded. A few evening ramblers milled around while a couple of office-returned waited at the dimly lit bus stop. She waited and got into the first bus that pulled in.

Was killing him the last option I had? Was it possible to persuade him one more time? Payel closed her eyes to reflect. Her mind raced seeking the answer to the redundant question though she knew this wasn’t the time to chew the cud. Having seated in a corner while the bus sped along the crowded road shaking the weary passengers returning home at the end of the day, she couldn’t stop recalling the events.

Mahesh had checked into hotel Carlton on the midday. He had booked it earlier and texted her the address. As she was filling up the visitor’s register stating that it was a business meeting she caught a glimpse of the executive`s leering face that was hovering on her breast.


Payel knew this was not going to be any different from their previous rendezvous, all of them ending in wild orgies, Mahesh trying out all different postures as if she were a slut who had been paid for taking part in those weird debauchery. She didn’t mind them in the beginning, considering them one rare passionate indulgence but when the relationship didn`t grow beyond fornication even after two years, Payel had enough reasons to believe that she had been duped.

“I don`t like doing those silly things all the time! Can`t we sit down and talk about something?” she objected.

“Are you crazy? You want me to spend ten thousand bucks for looking into those eyes of yours? ” Mahesh snorted while peeling off her kamiz. At times Mahesh acted mean as if it were only for sex that they ever wanted to meet up. He waited for the door to be closed behind them to start groping her like a dog in heat licking the back of its bitch. Even now Payel felt his greedy hands hovering around her neck and trying to unhook her brassiere.

“Wait a bit Mahesh. I have something to discuss.” She said.

“The whole night is there to discuss.” He said and took a long swig from his glass of whisky. Lighting a cigarette he took a few hurried puffs and stubbed the butt into the astray as if unless he was primed with those intoxicants he wouldn’t be able to savour the act. The next moment Payel knew, she was stripped of the last shred of cloth on her body and she closed her eyes for yet another episode as Mahesh began devouring her in his drunken crudeness.

After a while, even though she wasn’t mentally ready, Payel felt she was getting aroused and her own body was letting her down, accommodating the hirsute male despite all the gall she had against him. The room smelled of burnt cigarette and whisky despite the split AC throwing fresh chilled air towards them, and later as their naked bodies lay entwined on the bed Payel watched Mahesh`s flushed contented face resting on her chest as if the bliss of orgasm was still lingering in him.

The man was great in bed, Payel had no doubt about it, but even after two years of courtship she wasn’t still certain about her place. At times Mahesh seemed to be a sincere and caring man whom she could trust with eyes closed, but at others he remained unfathomable and rude. Payel knew he had been fighting an acrimonious legal battle with his wife since years and therefore when she was confused she always awarded him the benefit of doubt. But two years was a long time to take a final decision; and for Payel, a woman of twenty five, she was half way down her marriageable age already.

“Have you thought anything?” Payel said running her fingers through his hair.

“What am I supposed to think?” Mahesh asked turning on his back, facing the ceiling. His strong muscular forearm rested on her belly as he gently stroked her bare navel.

“Like when are we going to get married?” Payel said.

“Haven’t I said until I get the divorce from Sanjana nothing is possible?” His voice seemed chafed.

“How long it`s going take? I have been listening this for aeons!”

“Legal matters take time. And that fucking lawyer of her is making things complicated. But don`t worry, things will be settled soon.”

“Aren’t you telling me this since the last one year?” Payel said.

Mahesh sprang up from the bed and crouched like an animal on the prowl.

“Because that`s all I know. There is nothing I can do about it. How many times do I need to tell you that?” Mahesh screamed and glared at her. The diabolic glint in his eyes seemed too overwhelming. He squeezed her cheek hard. Payel cringed like a slender roadside balsam plant that bows to the wake of the crosswind when a huge gleaming SUV races down at top speed.

“Why do you freak out like this whenever I bring up the topic of marriage?” she said like a bruised balsam flower.

“Because you know the truth; yet you accuse me as if I am trying to run away,” Mahesh let her face go with a mild nudge.

“How would you know the girl`s plight when she has to answer hundreds people who are sitting on a high horse to judge her?” Payel said. “How long do I have to lie to my parents Mahesh?” She asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

“No need to act smart! Life isn’t a Bollywood film! Who told you to beat the drum in the bazaar? Didn’t I tell you not to talk about our relationship until we get married? Can`t you keep anything within yourself, you half-wit slut! ” Mahesh hissed.

“Mind you tongue Mahesh, you are crossing the limit.” Payel said.

“Who do you think you are? A sati?” Mahesh blurted. “Huh! A woman like you should feel fortunate just to be able sleep with me!” Mahesh said reclining on a heap of two pillows, crossing his legs and kept on spewing venom. “Have you ever counted the gifts I have given you? Those jewelleries and saris are worth of a few lacs?” Mahesh yelled.

“I didn’t ask for the gifts. You gave it on your own.” Payel said.

“What do you think I gave you all those for? Don`t act so naive that you don`t understand anything! I didn’t gift those to worship you! This is how I repaid you for all your services.”

“Don`t say that for God`s sake! I am not a slut. I didn’t do all these for money. I love you and all I did was to prove my sincerity.”

“Love! Bullshit! I know how the whores like you shed crocodile tears!” Mahesh grimaced as he took a long draught from his glass and wiped his lips.

It was at this point Payel resolved to avenge her humiliation and betrayal, and even the score for she had no doubt left in her mind that Mahesh would never marry her. The delay of getting the divorce was just a ploy to con her into this sordid relationship. You must pay for it, she muttered under her breath as she swallowed all the humiliations silently.

Mahesh cussed her in his drunken rage threatening her with worse consequences if she ever tried to confide in others till he fell asleep and began snoring. It didn’t take much time for Payel to decide how she was going to pay him back. The kitchen knife lying beside the fruit bowl seemed brand new, its edge sharp enough to cut deep through human flesh.

On an insane frenzy like someone possessed, Payel stabbed him in the left of his chest with all her might and Mahesh woke up from his drunken stupor with tearing pain to find blood spurting out of his chest in jet and splattering onto the face of a woman who held a knife dangerously inches above him and was screaming like a maniac. Mahesh tried to get up, but like a man-eating tiger that had tasted blood already, Payel slashed his throat in one sharp strike and silenced him for good. Mahesh dropped dead like a beheaded goat.



“Madam, where will you get down?” the voice of the conductor brought her back.

All the passengers had got off and the bus had reached its terminus. Payel got off to find herself in a dark alley beside an over bridge where dozens of buses were garaged for the night. A tiny dimly lit eatery was still open with a few men eating their dinner on the go. The red neon signs of the railway station could be seen at a distance against the dark sky. It shouldn`t take more than ten minutes. Payel stepped up her pace.

(beta read and edited by Prachi.)

Debashis Deb

The Horse rider

I wrote this story following Amish`s preface for Write India story competition of TOI in August 2015. The first paragraph is written by Amish.

Close to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton farmers, her family was well to do, but (did not feature amongst the most affluent people in the area) not among the richest in their area. It was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks, carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time! Work was at its peak!

But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.

'I am sick of this!' she grunted loudly.

Top of Form

“Sick of what Illa?” Her friend Sumati asked.

“Marriage. Is it the only thing a girl is raised for?”

“No; marriage is important, but it can’t be the only thing in a woman’s life.” Sumati said.

“Father says that he is going to marry me off this winter.”

“That`s a good news Ilaa! Why are you making a face? Who is that fortunate man?” Sumati asked.

“A businessman. His name is Govind.”

“Govind? That cloth merchant from Paithan?” Sumati asked.

“How do you know him?” Ilaa asked, surprised.

“One of my cousins is married to his neighbour. During my last visit to Paithan, when we went to the bazaar, my cousin took me to Govind`s shop. He has a sari shop, a fairly big one.

‘’Yes, the same one, I guess. Last year when he came to buy cotton from us, he told haughty stories to impress my father. After he was gone, father babbled all the day about how big and flourishing his business was. How a young man like him had done it all alone. He came to our house next week with the proposal of marriage and a gift of paithani silk saris. How barefaced can a man be! He said that those saris were made from precious China silk and that he got them weaved by his own private craftsman only for us! Big mouth! I know he has a business, but it`s not as big as he boasts it to be. Whatever he says, he makes up most of it, I am sure; but my father wouldn’t listen to me.” Ilaa said.

“What happened after that?”

“I convinced my father to allow me to complete my music training, and got the marriage postponed by a year. But this year, he is adamant about putting a date to the marriage. I heard Govind is going to visit us next week with his parents to fix the date."

“But how do you know that he is a swindler?”

“You have to just look at his face to know what kind of man he is. I feel he is just another wanton scoundrel, under the guise of a gentleman.”

“Why do you think so illa?

“I don`t like the way he looks at me. I find his stare disturbing. I feel as if he were undressing me with his eyes.”

“Are you sure you are not imagining things? That might be his way of expressing his feelings. I think he has fallen head over heels for this gorgeous damsel.” Sumati smiled and gave her a playful nudge. “Some people are not so good at those social skills. So far I know, Govind has a reasonably good character, and he is still a bachelor. ”

“So, does that empower him to marry a girl even if she isn’t willing?”

“No, that`s a different matter altogether.” Sumati said. After few minutes of reflection she said again, “I have a feeling that you have somebody in your mind. Am I right Ilaa?”

Sumati saw her friend looked away, avoiding her gaze as if the truth would be revealed if their eyes met. She held her friend`s chin and turned it towards her.

“Look at my eyes.” She said,” Now tell me what`s the matter.”

Ilaa` s cheek was flushed, crimson, as though all her blood had risen to her face. Her beautiful eyes, framed by dreamy, long eyelashes were shinning like never before. Is that the face of a woman who had fallen in love? Sumati wondered.

“Are you in love with somebody?” Sumati asked. She was clueless about her friend`s ire which apparently had no basis. Most girls of the village were married off at an early age. Eighteen was right age for them to get married. Though her own story was different; she had a club foot from birth that made her limp, but it was expected that suitors would bid for Ilaa, a beautiful maid of a well to do family, who can read and write as well. Govind, though illiterate, was a well heeled man and would have made a good match without doubt. He had a bald patch which was rapidly growing, hidden under his pagdi; but how would that matter when he was able to gift his would be wife a couple of golden bordered silk saris? After all, men are not judged by their looks!

Ilaa lowered her gaze. The setting sun in the west had turned the sky magical, luminescent. The gentle breeze carried a sweet smell from the cotton fields, afar.

“Yes, I am.” Ilaa said.

‘’Who is he?” Sumati whispered.

“A horse rider.”

“A horse rider!” Sumati said, her eyes were wide and mouth gaping in surprise. “But who is he?”

“A soldier.”

“A soldier also has a name! Come on Ilaa, tell me. I am your best friend!”

“I don`t know his name. But I know if I am to marry someone, then it will be him.” Ilaa said.

“Oh God! You sound like a moony.”

“If I close my eyes I see him galloping away by the river. He rides like a storm, he is fierce like a tiger but he always slows down when he spots me returning home with my pail of water. I can smell him from distance; I can recognise him from the canter of his chestnut.”

“Has he told you that he loves you?”

“No, not yet. We haven`t spoken, but I know; eyes don’t lie.”

“So this is the reason why you dislike poor Govind!” Sumati said.

The bank of mighty river was desolate except the two friends sitting under a coconut palm. A boat was ferrying the villagers from Nandagram, the village that lay across the river. Ilaa was lost in her day dream when Sumati said,

“Tell me more about your soldier. Tell me when did you meet him for the first time?”

“I met him here, on the bank of Godavari.” Ilaa said. “It was an afternoon like this, a year ago. The king`s soldiers had camped somewhere far in the empty cotton fields. The harvest was over already. I was going back home, humming a song. Then I heard trot of a horse following me. I dismissed it thinking I was hallucinating because there wasn’t anybody around except the kid that never lives me alone, capering ahead of mine, its bell making sweet tinkles. Then a man spoke.”

“Was he the soldier?” Sumati asked.

“Yes, it was him. I didn’t know him, but he was in warrior`s livery, with the royal insignia engraved over his left chest. With one look at him, I knew he was a soldier. When he got off the horse, I was trembling, thinking what wrong I had done, but he was quick to recognise my apprehension.” Ilaa said.

“Didn’t he tell you anything?” Sumati asked.

“He said he was a soldier but there was no reason to get scared of him because he wasn’t in hot pursuit of an outlaw, and strolling on the bank of Godavari was not an offence at all.”

“Didn’t he ask your name?”

“No, he didn’t. He just mounted his horse and galloped away. After he had left, I stood there flabbergasted for some time. I was wondering why he got off his horse.” Ilaa said.

“It`s surprising.” Sumati said.

“We bumped on each other on the streets and bazaar, but we never spoke. It was only during couple of weeks ago, he asked my name.”

“At least now he knows your name.” Sumati said.

Both the friends had a hearty laugh. As they were coming home they met a couple of bullock carts returning, packed with bales of cotton procured from their village. A few scrawny bare bodied kids screamed and ran after the carts just to annoy the coachman.



When Ilaa returned home, she met her father and two elder brothers sitting in they yard discussing something. They suddenly became silent as they saw her approaching. Her father looked angry, his face stiff, vacant vacant for a few moments then all hell broke loose.

“Where have you been for the whole day?” Her father demanded.

“I was with Sumati in her house.” Ilaa skipped the river bank sojourn.

“No, it`s not true.” Her father roared.” I checked. You went there but after some time you sneaked away with Sumati. Where did you go?”

“We went to the bank of the river.” Ilaa said.

“Why? Whom did you meet there?”

“Father, you are mistaken. I haven’t met anybody there. We went there just to sit and talk; nothing else.” Ilaa said.

“Aren’t you two gossiping all the time at home too? What`s the need of going to the deserted riverside in the afternoon and invite trouble? Haven’t you seen the royal army parading in the nearby ground? ”

Ilaa`s heart missed a couple of beats on mention of the king`s soldiers. So her father knew about the drill that the king`s force sometimes undertake at the riverside. Was he aware of her secret admirer too? But how could that be? She didn’t even know his name! Except exchanging few glances they haven’t done anything so far. Then suddenly she recalled she had told him her name when they met last. But why was her father suspecting her to be a dissolute? Did the soldier send a proposal too?Top of Form

Her mother, who was watching from the door step, came to her rescue.

“For God`s sake leave the girl alone. She is upset already, and three of you will drive her mad!” she said.

Illa ran inside, leaving her fuming father in the yard, who now chose to torment his wife instead. She heard her father yelling maxims to his wife that longer a daughter remains at her father`s home more trouble it brews as the parents lose their grip upon their children after some time. He would, therefore, take no chances and arrange the marriage as soon as possible.

Later at night when her mother retired to bed after the day`s work, Ilaa decided to speak to her mother.

“I don`t want to marry Govind.” She said.

“Who said you have to marry him?” Mother said.

“Father. Didn’t he declare so in the afternoon?” Ilaa said.

“That`s his view, and he can`t be blamed either. Daughters should be married above and for all I know, Govind is richer than us. So, there is nothing wrong in the thought. But, my daughter`s happiness is the most important consideration for me. If you aren’t willing, I won`t force you.” Her mother assured her.

Ilaa cuddled her mother, “I love you mother, I know; only you will understand me.”

Her mother, while accepting the praise, said, “Will you tell me the truth?”

“Yes, Mother. Ask me, what you want to know.”

“Who is he? For whom you are rejecting the cloth merchant?” Her mother`s voice seemed mysterious.

The night was dark; but it was darker inside the room for the oil lamp, the only source of light, was stubbed out. Ilaa squinted to guess her mother`s expression, but all she saw was a blurry silhouette. The elderly lady probably had kept her eyes closed, though she wasn’t asleep yet, waiting for her daughter to reply to her question.

“A soldier.” She said and thanked the darkness to provide her the anonymity.

"A soldier?" Her mother said."What's his name?"
"I don't know."
"You said you have chosen him!"
"I don't know anything about him except for he is a soldier".
"Oh my god! I thought you had something in your head! But it seems you have nothing but cow dung."
Ilaa didn't speak. Her mother spoke again.
"Did you meet him today?"
"No. When we last met, a fortnight ago, he had asked my name."
"So you told yours but didn't ask his!"
"I was nervous mother! I couldn't look at his eyes."
"Why?"
"They are so mesmerizing!"
"Silly girl! Haven’t you lost a golden opportunity? Unless you tell me the name how do we get to know about this soldier? At least we need to know that he's not married already!" “ I don`t believe he married.” “ Did you ask him?” “ No, I didn’t even ask his name!” “ You can`t trust a man at his face. I have seen more men than you, my girl!” Her mother said.
"Oh God! What's going to happen if he's married already?"
"You'd have to forget him for good."
"I can't. In that case I won't marry."
"My poor girl!" Her mother said, stroking her hair.”You will forget everything my daughter, time is one great healer. I can tell you that.”

Both remained quiet for some time. They heard a pack of jackals howling in the bamboo thickets. Soon the household dogs woke up and began barking to chase the wild animals away. The noise continued for some time, rising to a peak as the canines screamed and clawed their enemies, then the noise began to dwindle, and she heard some sad yelps of the dying dogs hurt in the fight. Soon the wail trailed into silence again, fitfully broken by the chirp of the crickets. She whispered, “mother, are you awake?” The tired woman was already asleep, she didn’t reply. Ilaa got up from the bed. She opened the window overlooking the valley.

An owl hooted from the mango tree in their back yard. The sky was dark; the bluish white incandescent moon shone behind a veil of cloud.

Soldier! Horse rider! Where are you? Illa heard herself calling.





Debashis Deb

Suggested by two of my writer friends, I read this book through the last week. Both my friends vouched for Hanif`s impeccable, stylish prose, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was such a pleasure to read. In addition of being witty and humorous, Hanif`s writing exuded class and perfection of the craft honed by somebody who loved written words. The book for me was a learning experience; and for once I imagined enrolling myself for some creative writing course!


Ali Shigri, an air force trainee tells the story in first person alternately with the author, who speaks in third person POV. This is one example of superior writing skill that enthrals the reader to turn the pages fast and a tool for the newbie writers to take note.


Nobody knew how the presidential aeroplane, Pak One, exploded after being airborne in 1988 with General Jia-ul Haque along with many top ranking army generals of Pakistan and the US ambassador Arnold Rachel. Hanif has weaved his own theory, which didn’t appear a cock-and-bull story for once even. President Jia-ul Haque appeared a pitiful religious old man, misunderstood by his wife and unaware of the conspiracies hatched by his own men who harboured their own secret ambitions. Hanif made us to believe in his story that unfolded slowly and deliciously like a ripe mango, peeled, pieced and served on a platter of spotless china with fork and spoon.


The novel won Shakti Bhat award, long listed for Booker and Gurdian first novel award. The book has something bright and breezy about it for the whole of the last week I felt very energetic and buoyant. I was surprised to recognise that it was Hanif`s writing that had brought the change into my psyche and taught me a thing or two, to incorporate in my own writing. Maybe like my friend, I will keep it at number eleven for the hundred books I loved to read.

Random Ramblings: Two

The book cover of my first novel is ready. 

I owe it to Sayani Nandi, an energetic girl who volunteered to do it.

But so far I have rewritten only eight chapters out of thirty-three. Every day in the morning, after I get up from bed, I promise myself not to open the social media, whatsup and facebook to be precise, and concentrate on my work. The primary job, which provides me the daily bread, has become routine and doesn't intrude into my private space now. Besides, I have learned to moderate my aspirations and therefore I can squeeze out reasonable time for my new hobby, writing. But, even then why I am not able to finish what I had been planning? I was wondering about it for some time, and today, after I have read the news about Anuradha Roy`s third book has been long listed for Man Booker 2015, it has begun haunting me for “Banalata Sen” one of the best poems of Jibananda Das, that I have used in my novel, had found a prominent place in Anuradha`s novel too. At this rate, if I keep on procrastinating, soon people might condemn me for plagiarisation.

I have heard about her somewhere, sometime back, but haven’t read any of her books. I read what the blurb of the book”Sleeping on Jupiter”, and it seems interesting. Jarmuli, a temple town sounds like Puri, but the author had rejected the suggestion, that`s what the reporter writes. For those who are interested to buy the book or e-book, here is the link.

http://www.amazon.in/Sleeping-Jupiter-anuradha-roy/dp/9350099365/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1438232813&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=sleeping+in+the+jupiter

And for more discerning followers of yours truly, here is the link for long list of Man Booker award 2015.

http://www.themanbookerprize.com/news/man-booker-prize-announces-2015-longlist

My Brother

My Brother

Tapas was born fifteen years later. I grew up almost alone but on the year I wrote my board, he, suddenly announced his arrival. I thought his birth was mistimed as neither my parents were ready for another child and nor did I need a kid brother at fifteen to give me company. Nevertheless, he arrived, unwanted, unwelcome.

Just after birth, he looked like a shrivelled baby monkey with big ears sprouting out of his puny head with eyes that had oblique slant. He didn't cry for a long time after birth that made everybody wonder if he was really breathing, and when he did, he didn't sound like other babies. Like an abandoned fledgling of shalik, he squeaked till a nurse held a piece of moistened cotton to his lips.  Later, when my mother came home with Tapas, I was relocated to my study room finally to make way for him. I wasn't angry, neither was I jealous. The tiny baby, who hardly cried and rarely threw its limbs, seemed too gentle to me. Nevertheless, he grew up slowly, never reaching the adulthood, both mentally and physically. We knew he was like a blighted seed; his DNA missing its sequence in the long haul of meiosis and that he would remain so for the rest of his life.

I grew up, finished my studies and joined a job while Tapas still learnt the alphabets and the nursery rhymes.

One day about a week before my marriage, mother called me in her room.

“You might find this a little disturbing, but I feel I must tell you this.” She said in a sombre voice.

“What`s it ma?”

“So far we three have been good and caring to Tapas. Now a fourth person is going to come and she might not be as considerate as us. It`s your duty to take care of your brother. Don`t let him feel that he is a burden to you.” She said and began to sob.

I didn't know what to do. Neither could I imagine what was going on in her mind on that particular day. Tapas was fifteen year old then, but he still played with my old stuffed toys and rhyme books.

“Don`t worry ma, I`ll take care of him.” I said.

Since then, Tapas remained as a fully authorised member with a fixed chair allocated to him at the dining table. My father passed away at seventy and my mother followed him a couple of years later. On both occasions, Tapas accompanied me to the crematorium, performed all the rites but in the days that followed, I found him aloof and hiding in the bedroom that he shared with mother in her last days. Finally he stopped coming out of the bedroom even and remained holed up under the bed. I tried to talk to him, cheer him up, but he gave me a frightened look of a mouse caught in a mousetrap.

Next week we had to shift him to hospital.

The doctors said he had fever, a chest infection perhaps, and there was no reason to worry. But I had my doubts for his eyes that were always cheerful, appeared blank and glazed. Despite all those strong antibiotics, he didn't improve and we were called on one evening to take a decision.

“I am afraid, your brother hasn't responded to anything we have done so far. His blood pressure is falling, urine output is decreasing. We are giving him oxygen by mask, but soon he will need assisted ventilation. He won`t be able to sustain himself.”  The attending doctor said.

“What do you want me do doctor?” I said.

“Unless you tell us specifically that you don`t want your brother to be put into breathing machine, we will put him into ventilator if required and keep all our resuscitative measures on.”

“Is there any chance of recovery?” I asked.

“See, it`s difficult to predict death.” He said.

I looked at my brother. His tiny body was hidden under the green bed sheet; only his head was visible, his face under a transparent cone, pumping oxygen to his stiffened lungs. I went close to his bed and put my hand over his bald head. He opened his eyes. I heard him say, sign up brother, it`s time to go.

I got the final call in the morning. The doctor said he passed away at four am. I could take my time and reach hospital after eight.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter five. Notes

On the first day of our new class, our class teacher while calling out the names of the boys stumbled at the first name. From that year the school had begun affixing student`s roll numbers according to his or her position in the merit list. Jahar sir, who taught us Mathematics, frowned deeply looking at the name written against roll number one. He always wore his glasses at the farthest point on the nose, and had the habit of peering above them when he had any reason to focus. Now, finding an unusual name at the top, he sucked his teeth then pouted his lips twice, contemplating to strike it off thinking it was a wrong entry or a bad joke the clerk played upon him. Then he looked up, swiped his gaze around in an attempt to identify the boy if he really existed, who had the audacity to ascend to the top displacing his favourite. Unable to recognise the face, he yelled, “Amit Roy!”

I stood up.

“Oh, you are Amit. Bah! Very good!” He said. But from his face, and also the subtle sarcasm that filtered out of his praise, I got the message that he wasn't happy. I never imagined the teachers could be biased, and they had their own favourites to root for.

“Subham? Where are you?” Jahar sir screamed.

Subham, the eternal first boy of our class stood up.

“What`s the matter Subham? Have you become a little complacent nowadays? Are you taking things too easy? When the time has come to gear up you are faltering?” Jahar sir said.

I saw, along with rest of the class, where it was going. I felt as if I had done something awful to beat Subham, as though only Subham could come first – a position he held since nursery and had the birth right to hold on. Bipul, who was the eternal second boy had kept his position intact, and therefore when Jahar sir came down on the list and found Bipul`s name where it always had been, was little relieved. At least the coup did not shake up the entire class!

He came back to me.

“So Amit Roy, what`s your favourite subject?”

“Bengali.” I said.

The whole class broke into laughter. I knew all of them thought I was acting funny, but the truth was, I wasn`t. I really started loving literature much more than Science and Mathematics, which were scoring subjects no doubt, but in my opinion, hardly allowed the creative minds to flourish. You couldn’t have worked out a problem in a way you liked; there were well-sorted steps already; you need to learn them. I thought Jahar sir might ask me the reason, but he assumed a poker face and threw his tiny head back. When the rumble settled, Jahar sir told us that Bengali was a language spoken by twenty crore Bengalis throughout the world and ranked fifth among all the languages. Our national anthem is also written in Bengali; so there was no reason to be ashamed of one`s choice if he liked the language. But, he added, for a professional career one has to choose Science and Mathematics, as they formed the basis upon which a student builds up his future.

“I don`t want to become an engineer or a doctor.” I said, inviting him into the debate.

“You said you like Bengali and want to go ahead with it. Are you sure?” Jahar sir asked.

“Yes sir.” I reiterated.

“Wonderful! So what do you want to be in your life?”

“A writer.” I said. As I said so I felt the whole class was looking at me including Jahar sir, who now stared at me incredulously, with his mouth gaping and eyes peering over his glass. In a moment however he resumed his composure. Then he sat down in his chair and because it was so low in comparison to the table, only Jahar sir`s head was visible, rest of his torso disappearing. He was stamped at my choice, an unusual aim in life of a boy who lived in a suburban railway town, where meritorious boys always became doctors and engineers while mediocre students joined banks or railways.

Writer? Is it a profession? Do you think you could actually earn your livelihood by writing books in Bengali?
I thought this was what he felt at that moment, though he didn’t say anything. Later, Gautam and Khokan grabbed me during the break when I, with a poetry collection of Jibananda Das, that I borrowed from school library, was sitting below the gulmohor tree, enjoying one of his famous poems.

“Are you seriously contemplating to become a writer man?” Gautam asked.

I looked at him. He had a sneering disbelief in his eyes.

“It`s not easy to become a writer, you understand! I don`t know if I am fortunate enough to pursue what I dream, but in any case unless I get first division in class twelve, no one is going to listen to my plans.” I said.

In my next letter to Banochaya I wrote that I wanted to become a poet and a writer and wanted to know her opinion. She said, she was planning to study Sociology at Presidency College, the most famous college in Calcutta and she flatly remarked that a man needs to earn first to get the household going. She felt, Bengali was an inadequate choice for a man to pursue; it wasn’t necessary to study literature if one wanted to write!

                                       ***************


That year I got a letter from Kaveri, a girl of our neighbourhood, who had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I regarded this incident  as one of the milestones in my life, an important point in my journey towards adulthood that was never linear but like saw-toothed edge of a hacksaw.

I was all too busy with my studies and tuition, and writing letters to Banochaya in my free time, who had become a good friend now.

The letter in question came in the disguise of a missile, a stone draped in a piece of paper that fell close to me on the grass when I was manning the goal post in a friendly football match and my all attention was fixed at the penalty area of the opponent where the action was going on. I saw something dropping near me, and then as the missile rolled, the stone and the peel separated with the missive taking a flight in the wind like a paper aeroplane. I sniffed a plot immediately because I heard stories from my classmates who had already hooked girls and all of them vouched about the layered missile to be the most versatile and faithful weapon in the beginning of the love-war.

It said nothing but quoted a time on a particular date at a particular place. The letter didn't have name of the sender, and immediately I appreciated the wisdom of the letter writer. The cryptic nature of the message was thrilling and for once I felt good that a girl had expressed to see me. I looked around. There were six houses nearby from where this could be flung, but which one? I knew all the families and like a student of mathematics I began my exclusion one by one.

In between the ball came flying twice to me, somebody trying to stun me from a distance by taking a blasting left footer, but my reflexes were too good for him. I gathered the ball easily and yelled at my stoppers to be more careful because I had, by then, reduced the number of probables into two and wanted few more minutes to deduce the most probable.

However till the match continued I couldn't identify a spoor that could lead me to the window from where the missile was hurled. Back home, I took a shower and changed to a tee shirt and trouser and came out whistling. Mother noticed me going out in an unusual time and became suspicious.

“Where are you going now?” She asked.

“To get my Social Studies notes from Gautam.”

“Are they your notes? “

“Yes.”

“When did you give him?”

“Yesterday, in the school.”

“Why can’t he return himself?”

“How does it matter ma? It won`t take much time.”

“Okay.” She cooled down for some reason and before going to the shrine room warned me to come back early. I knew she would remain occupied with her deities for one hour at least. I counted one day; she had eight Gods in total. Kali, Laxmi, Ganesh, Hanuman, Shiva ( a ivory lingam actually), Kamakhya, Ramkrisna- Sarada ma, Krishna- Balaram- Subhadra ( I count them as one because they are in one photo frame); all of them in the form of miniature idols and photo frames occupied the wooden throne in a dank small room labelled as shrine room, that had more cockroaches than anything.

I watched the time in the wall clock hung in our drawing room and walked fast to reach the designated spot on time. It was a narrow road, one takes as a short cut while coming home back from railway institute. A small pan-beedi shop on a raised platform of four bamboo poles lit by a kerosene lamp stood below a lamp post. The street lights had already come; however, half of them didn't have bulbs, so the road was quite dark – blessing in disguise I thought. I didn't know for whom I was waiting; all I knew she was a girl who was in a generous mood for friendship. I stood below the street light for a minute and saw the shopkeeper was watching me in suspicious eyes as if I was planning to throw a stone to blow up the bulb. I had stopped doing this kind of naughty things nowadays, but before a year or two, when four of us were together and there wasn't anybody watching us, we often hurled stones at the tiny bulbs of the street lights just to find out whose throw was most accurate.

I bought a packet of chewing gum from the pan-beedi shop thinking that the suspecting shopkeeper would now stop minding my movements and exclude me from the clan of boys known for shenanigans. Besides I`d have something to munch on to kill time till my lady love appeared. So, I gave him a reassuring look, a kind smile and peeled the chewing gum packet and began munching.

Then I saw silhouette of two girls approaching me, and as they came close, I knew who they were.

It was Kaveri and her friend whose face was familiar, but I didn't know her name. Kaveri was two years junior and she went to the same school as I. Both of them were talking and when they approached near, glanced at me beckoning with a half-gesture to follow them. I understood, there was somebody in the vicinity and it wasn't safe for us to talk. Therefore, I should just follow them till we had reached safe waters.

After awhile, when he entered a relatively deserted stretch, Kaveri said, “You topped in class?”

I nodded my head. I could make out she was watching me from the corner of her eyes.

“What did you do with your notes?” she asked.

Oh, heck! she was after my notes! I thought. Something told me, caution man! Be careful!

“What notes are you talking about?” I asked.

“Didn't you prepare notes before the exam? “She asked.

Of course I had made notes, especially for Science, Social studies and Maths. My sister, who would be writing her school final after two years, was the legitimate heir of my labour. But here was a situation where there was a conflict of interests. I decided instantly that I wouldn't commit my notes to her just like that; she would have to prove her superiority over the natural inheritor.

“I believe in reading the books thoroughly. And that`s what I did.” I said.

“You mean, you read only the text books?” Now she turned towards me. I saw her kohl-lined eyes. I felt she was the first woman who was looking into my eyes, the gaze reaching the bottom of my heart, a depth from where no one was allowed to come back, and I, getting transfixed by the surreal magic was losing out in my stand.

She picked up the cue instantly and smiled. The smile was an admission of what had transpired between us in last ten seconds and the combination of the smile and the gaze was a lethal one for a fifteen year old to survive. I didn't remember what I said to her but I was excited and felt pity upon everybody else I met on the road because it was I who was the fortunate one.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Four. Pen friend.

After Diwali, Nilu returned, but he was taken straight to the hospital from the rail station. We heard the bad news: the surgery failed to fix his broken bone and the surgeons at Howrah orthopaedic hospital had to operate him again after two months. On the second occasion, they used some bone chips from his waist to bolster the patch-up so that the errant bone, which so long was playing truant, could finally be put back together. Apparently, it was due to the primitive and obsolete technique adopted by Dr Samanta on the first occasion that had botched NIlu`s chances big time. Nilu whispered the story to my ear for fear of retribution because now he was transferred to Dr Samanta`s care again, albeit with fresh list of instructions from orthopaedic surgeons of Howrah.

I found he looked paler and thinner than before, and a faint blue line had appeared above his upper lip, like rest of us. I went to the hospital alone, sneaking in just on time, few minutes before the visiting hour was over. I met Nilu`s full family on the hallway, Batulbabu in the lead followed by his wife and five boys like the gander being followed by the geese and the ducklings, but quickly skirted the main corridor and climbed up a narrow staircase. A blue-uniformed attendant, who was walking past ringing the hand-held bell to announce the end of visiting hour, tried to shoo me away; but the podgy nurse, recognizing my face, allowed me for a while. Almost half a year in exile had cost him one academic year, and when I told him that we were going to write the final exam in December, he chuckled sadly. When I asked him to take leave, he told he had something interesting to share.

“What`s that?” I asked.

Nilu took out a bundle of blue envelops, one end open, that seemed to have been read quite a number of times judging the grease and finger marks.

“Read this” He took a letter carefully out of its envelop.

“Whose letter is this?” I asked.

“My pen friend.” Nilu said. His eyes lit up in bright sparkles.

I never heard about pen friends, I didn’t know how they were made, so I looked at his face like a half-wit expecting him to elaborate. Nilu laughed a knowing laugh as if six months of exile in Calcutta, though it was only in a hospital, had made him smarter than rest of us, who by default stayed back.

“Pen friend is somebody who writes letters to you whom you write back.” He said.

“But what will you write to somebody you don’t even know?” I asked.

“You get to know your pen friend slowly through the letters and that`s where the charm lies.” Nilu said.

I didn’t find the whole concept much interesting, but because I didn’t want to hurt his sentiments, more so because he had been bed-bound for half a year, I agreed to read the letter. But one paragraph down, I became glued to it and read it in bated breath fast like a fascinated lover as if this was a love letter, for the sheer joy of reading well written prose. I felt goose bumps while I was reading and began to like her instantly. Suddenly I recognised if I ever had a girl friend she should be capable of writing like her though I didn’t know how she looked like. But I saw her in my mind’s eye; a dainty thirteen year old, who wore her hair in two thick braids. I came to know from her letter that her name was Banochaya Sen, and she lived in 6, Sadananda Road in Calcutta.

Not only she wrote well but her handwriting was also beautiful, matured enough so as to pass easily as that of a post graduate student, but what set her apart was her use of simile and metaphors. She had an enviable knowledge of both English and Bengali literature. I had read few Bengali classics but her repertoire at such a young age was unbelievable.

She wrote Nilu`s plight reminded her about Jem Finch, the elder brother of Scout Finch, also a thirteen year old, who had broken his left elbow in a book called ‘To Kill a Mocking bird’ written by one American writer Harper lee, who had written only one book in her life. I hadn’t read English novels, though I could name some of them because my father was fond of reading Bengali translations of English crime thrillers and borrowed them from railway institute library. Authors like James Hadley Chase, Arthur Halley, Agatha Christie, and Sidney Sheldon, all translated and hard bound in boring maroon covers featured on our dining table. Nilu`s pen friend was in class nine like us and she went to a school called Loreto Convent, a Christian missionary school in Calcutta, unlike ours, where the medium of teaching was English.

When I returned the letter to him, Nilu said,” Impressed?”

“Yes. She writes very well.” I said. With my limited knowledge of literature, I could make out the girl was well read and was few notches above us.

“Where did you find her address?” I asked.

“I got it from newspaper.” Nilu said.

I didn’t know what to say except praising his luck to have such an intelligent pen friend, but he said he wanted to dump her. I was shocked.

“Why? She writes so beautifully!” I said. But soon realised perhaps Nilu was suffering from inferiority complex for he knew he would have to repeat class nine. Or maybe there were some other reason he didn’t want to divulge.

“Have you seen how she addresses me?” Nilu said.

I missed out the opening lines for the excitement of discovering a thirteen year old girl`s writing brilliance, but when Nilu pointed it out I noticed it. She had addressed Nilu as Nila, a female name.

“She doesn`t know that I am a boy!” Nilu said.

“How is that possible? “ I was surprised.

“I enrolled myself as a girl. I am Nila to her.” Nilu smiled mischievously.

“Why?” I almost shouted.

“Because the rules say only girls can write to girls.”

“Oh, you wanted to befriend a girl and know her secrets?” I burst out laughing.

Nilu assumed a funny face for I caught him red-handed. Then he turned sombre, “Not really. I wanted somebody to share my pain. I wanted someone whom I could tell what was going on with me, how I was suffering!” Nilu`s face looked suffused, “There was none in that hospital who knew me – no friends, no acquaintances. I lay on the bed all through the day with plaster on; hardly anybody spoke to me. I was so depressed! The day somehow passed but the night seemed never-ending because I couldn’t sleep a wink. I took to reading books, magazines and whatever I could lay my hand on to. I read the newspaper every day, each word of it until I was tired. One day I noticed a small advertisement given out by a Pen-friend club inviting interested people to become member. So I wrote to them and became a member. They gave me a list of names and addresses and advised boys to write to boys and girls to girls. I don`t know what struck me, maybe I liked the name ‘Banochaya’ and decided to write to her. I could only write her as a girl. So I took my pen-name of Nila.” Nilu paused. “Once I thought of telling her that I was a boy, not a girl. But she was the only friend I had. I couldn’t afford to lose her. I had a feeling that she might stop writing if I told her the truth. So I carried on.” Nilu said.

Oh, God! I thought. I never thought that way. It never occurred to me to consider Nilu`s plight, his frustrations. Seating across him while he lay half-reclining on the bed I put myself in Nilu`s position. What I would have done if I were to face a similar situation? Apart from opening my bleeding heart to a girl for sympathy? Nilu did the same, but he hid his identity. He had to, because the rules said so. I felt bad for him, the poor boy! It must have been terrible to be in a hospital, unable to move about, asking the ayahs and chowkidars all the time to give you pots to pee and shit.

Nilu said Banochaya was a sympathetic listener. On her subsequent letters she wrote about her worries, about her own world, about authors whose name sounded Greek to Nilu and at one point Nilu felt he wasn’t able to keep pace with her. His initial curiosity was gone and he was convinced she would remain a pen friend only. But now Nilu was convalescing; the doctors said in few months Nilu would be able to walk. With the promise of return to his normal life he didn’t require a friend who existed in letters, he wanted his real friends back. Besides, he was tired of his fake identity.

“I had enough.” Nilu said. “If I continue further I might get caught. After all how long you can fake yourself? This girl is too intelligent; I am no match to her. I want you to take over from me?” Nilu said. I felt proud of myself for being judged intellectually superior by my own friend.

“You want me to pose as a girl?” I asked.

“Depends. “ Nilu said.

I suspected Nilu to cook something weirdo again. The boy had a head-full of loony ideas!

“You can tell her that you are my elder brother, or a senior from school if you don`t want to pass for a girl.”

“But what reason should I put forward for writing to her suddenly? You said, only girls can write to girls; in that case I`ll be breaking the rule. What guarantee is there that she won’t stop writing for good?” I said.

“See, in any case I am not going to write to her. If you are interested you can take it from here. You can try. If it works fine, if it doesn’t, let her go to hell!” Nilu seemed peeved about his little genius pen friend. I understood the once sweet relationship now had lost its meaning for Nilu, but I was baffled how to introduce myself in Nilu`s place as a boy.

“Kill me in a road accident.” He said, “Tell her I met an accident, a speeding truck crushed me and I died instantly, or some other kind of drama, in your first letter and introduce yourself. I can guarantee she will reply.”

I was dumbfounded. The little rascal seemed no less a creative genius than his pen friend to me.

“Whoa! What an idea!” I said, happy to see my job now was just a cake walk.

“Now, write a nice little letter, kind of condolence, telling her that after my death, you found out this treasure of mine and felt it was your mighty good duty to inform her about the heartbreaking news and so on etcetera.” Nilu bundled up all the letters and dumped them on my hand.

I watched the bunch of letters curiously wanting to read them immediately but didn’t show my eagerness to Nilu as if I were not so interested in this pen friend business, but only not to upset him, I was accepting this offer.

“You have to update your literary knowledge frequently. The girl reads a lot.” Nilu finally warned.



On my way home, holding the bundle carefully, so that I don`t drop any loose sheet, I felt like a hero who had returned home victorious. I almost wrote the introductory letter in my head but discarded few lines which sounded too sappy.

Later when I reached home, I climbed up roof and in the shadow of the gable read the letters. I read all of them, ten in total, twice over and knew few things that stupid Nilu didn’t tell me.

In one letter, which must be in reply to one of Nilu`s, she wrote she wouldn’t marry ever because she felt she was incomplete. It seemed a mystery to me; I wasn’t sure what that word ‘incomplete’ meant, but she didn’t write anything about it, leaving the reader to guess, the inner meaning of her cryptic statement.

She wrote if there was any character in any novel she wished to resemble, then she would like to be lady Chatterley of DH Lawrence`s ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’. I hadn’t read the book, but wondered how it was possible to become Mrs Chatterley without getting married to one Mr Chatterley, but later, when the writing bug had bitten me and I devoured all the books that DH Lawrence wrote, understood what was going on in her mind when she wrote that.

Random Ramblings: One. Ilish

This post is only for connoisseurs of fish, sorry vegans! Since last week, when finally monsoon descended into our parched city, the ilish of Bay of Bengal began swimming upstream to the Ganges, allegedly to lay eggs in its sweet waters. No, I am no marine biologist; this is just widely held view about behaviour of ilish, which Bongs have been devouring since ages. Bengali cuisine is incomplete without at least one item of ilish from its numerous delicacies, made famous by each district of undivided Bengal.

But, have you ever seen a live ilish? Hardly can you find out a fish eater who has seen an ilish fish gasping in a drum of water like koi, magur or even rui. It is such a sensitive fish, and dies soon it is taken out of water. All attempts to grow it in ponds failed for its habit of living in estuaries where fresh and brackish water mix to produce the unique aquatic environment for them; I was told by one old fish monger long back. And this was perhaps the reason why the quintessential Bengali angler never experienced the joy of catching an ilish with a fishing rod.

I have never went fishing, my experience of fishing was limited to watching my pishemoshai ( auntie’s husband) armed with his half a dozen fishing rods moored on the bank of a large pond, opposite to the railway stadium.

One day, while watching the bait bobbing in the placid waters, I got a shock of my life when the wheel of a fishing rod suddenly zapped and began to whir. I saw in horror, the spool of the fishing rod spinning at a tremendous speed, the nylon string unwinding out rapidly, the rod shuddering from the tug as if it were going to disappear into the water. It seemed the bait was swallowed by a watery monster that was trying to set itself free. It would have disappeared deep into the waters unless pishemoshai had secured the other end against a pole driven into the earth. Both of us, languid following Sunday lunch, stirred back to life and jumped over to catch hold of the vanishing rod, and for some time it was a tug of war between a giant katla fish and two human beings.

Finally, after swimming all around the pond, the fish became tired and decided to surrender. Pishemoshai, thrilled to have caught one of the prized catch, closed in, rewinding the line, and I had a glimpse of the giant fish, its silvery fins now catching light as it came almost to the surface. But, at the final moment, the fish leaped away back into the water, disengaging the bait, which was a puzzle for me. But, pishemashai, told me it was possible for a giant fish to tear itself away.

Though this was hardly the story of ilish I began, this was my only first-hand experience with a live fish. Every year at the beginning of the season, I often hear the fish mongers at Jodhpur Park market discuss the greatest chance of getting a big catch of ilish is the full moon night during the monsoons. I often visualised myself sailing with a fisherman boarding a small boat in the Ganges, the man throwing his net in the dark, and the moist wind brushing against us, the night whispering its symphony to my ears, too romantic for a fishing expedition. But, one day I met a person who actually went for fishing ilish during the monsoon.

I know this will interest you more than eating the fish; I was also hooked and cancelled few appointments to listen to his story.

It was actually a trawler, fitted with crude engine that sailed from Diamond harbour with three or four people on board. They sailed for days, sometimes weeks even before they came back. The man, Liton Sardar, who had sunburnt face and gnarled limbs said, “For days you don’t see anything but only water all around. And when it rains, with the gusty wind blowing, you see nothing but the grey sky above and expanse of water below touching the horizon all around. It`s scary, even for us.”

“Have you ever been caught in a storm?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“The trawler can capsize if waves are too wild!”
“Yes, it happens during every season.” He muttered something under his breath and then said, “So far we have been lucky. But don`t know what`s written in the future!”
“What do you eat?” I asked, excited about the possibility of surviving on only ilish for a week.
“We carry our food, rice, dal some basic spices.” He said.
“And ilish?”
“You get tired of it.” He said.

That was true, of course. Too much of anything is bad, even the ilish.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Three. Spice it Up!

Dashami was an oxymoron. It was the saddest day of the year when the week-long jubilation abruptly came to an end but for young boys it was also the happiest day as on this afternoon their guardians went easy on them, overlooking their wayward gazes or naughty things they indulged in, like smoking cigarettes, chasing weed or gulping down few pegs of rum. That year in September, I turned fourteen and in case you had missed it, I`d like you to take note; fourteen is the watershed year in the life of a boy when he moults out of his baby-skin, and this was so remarkably true for me because that year, I, along with Gautam and Khokan broke into the elite circle of big boys who went to the river bank for the immersion ceremony.

It was an unsaid rule that boys who were granted permission to board the truck that carried the idol of Durga for immersion should have consumed some form of poison on Dashami afternoon. All, except few uncles, who were past their heyday, got stoned by late afternoon, before the lorry came. We had one senior called Bhanuda, who specialised in spiking up cigarettes with marijuana. It was a tedious process of emptying the tobacco and replacing it with crushed marijuana leaves, but Bhanuda did it effortlessly without dropping a smidgen even without looking at it.

That year, when we received the green signal, it was too late. We had a little meeting among ourselves, but it seemed an impossible task to arrange a bottle of booze for us because the booze-shop remained closed on Dashami. What a waste! I thought in my hind sight. I could visualise the long queue in front of the grilled facade of the booze-shop on Dashami afternoon; people hurriedly collecting their poison and the shop surpassing all its past record. How they could be so foolish, I thought.

So, left with no option but to beg, we snooped around the probable hideouts where the older boys were priming themselves for the occasion to take pity on us and share a swig or two, but were shooed away like street dogs. We caught a glimpse of the grand session going on through half closed window like hungry beggars; the old bustards drew long swigs of rum mixed with Campa cola and smoked spiked cigarettes as well. Lastly, feeling lost and looking haggard, we flocked at the music room where Bhanuda sat with his friends smoking roaches. A weird smell filled up the air of the tent and Bhanuda looked fully primed up. Looking at our upset faces he gave us a mysterious smile. Then nodding his head as if he recommended our promotion, he said,

“So, you guys got permission this time?”

“Yes.” I said.

“So, any special preparation from your side for Dashami?



“No, nothing.” We mourned together as if to reinforce our urgent need for some poison.

“Sit down.” He said, “Let me do something for you.”

We looked at each other and having satisfied that we would have something at least, huddled on an empty bench. Bhanuda, in a swift hand, emptied two Charminars and stuffed them with a mixture from his stock.

None of us had begun smoking yet, but having been presented the roach by Bhanuda himself, that was perceived a rare privilege, we took few drags each ignoring the nasty cough it induced as if unless we went high on grass we would be thrown out of the Noah`s ark.

After few puffs, my head began to spin and my friends` faces appeared funny, distorted. I began to laugh; soon Gautam and Khokan joined me. Three of us began laughing like crazy, splitting sides and after a while I forgot why I was laughing in the first place. My jaw remained unclasped in a perpetual laughing posture despite my effort to close it. A weird feeling struck me for a moment, and I realised my muscles were working on their own and there was some serious fault in the nerves connecting the brain to my end organs. I saw Bhanuda watching his new protégés with the satisfying smile like that of the devil watching the peasants being successfully corrupted. He gave us three strips of red cloth to tie on our forehead like bandana, to complete our look of Dashami reveller.

We came out laughing and sat on the ledge of the empty veranda of Uncle Jose.

“Why are two of you laughing?” I asked Gautam.

“I don`t know.” Gautam said in between the bouts of uncontrollable laugh.

I tried to assess Khokan`s level of intoxication. But he closed his eyes and clenched his mouth shut to escape estimation. The veterans watched us amused; one of them advised to stuff ourselves with some sweets. Later, I came to know that sweets made people laugh more.

In the meantime the lorry arrived and we hoisted the earthen idols on the back of the truck. The idols were too heavy to lift, ( I seriously thought about advocating to reduce the size of idols!) and all three of us, zonked and charged, huffed and puffed along with uncles and the labourers to hoist the deities on. I heard somebody commenting about the absence of the young brigade, but I was pretty sure that he was aware of the special preparation going on at different hideouts, forgetting it just at that moment.

Three of us, like possessed, ran around and did everything we were told to do. I heard ramblings of junior boys, pointing at us, jeering something out of jealousy because now we were counted among the privileged. Sitting on the edge of the wooden covers of the truck that were bolted back, I tried to look at the assembled crowd consisting of girls and older women from our neighbourhood with few bystanders and guests visiting their relatives. Most of them were busy showing their last respect to departing mother goddess by touching their joined palms to their forehead in great obeisance; a few made shrill sounds twisting their tongue as the driver revved on the gas.

Soon the truck began roll out of the triangular field, and the young brigade, so long busy in preparation came out of their respective hideouts with red bandana tied across as if it were the trade mark of our neighbourhood. They boarded the moving truck like hopping monkeys one by one.

Somebody worked up a small fire in an earthen incensory with dry coconut husks and threw a handful of frankincense into it. Grey reverent smoke rose, the drummer and his assistant began playing, and the hopped up boys shouted slogan in slurred voice, “glory to the goddess Durga! When again? Next year!” We joined the chorus as well and watched the truck negotiating bends and intersections. Few lucky boys sat on the rooftop of the cabin, the most coveted spot if you ask me, which would take few more years for us to reach, and yelled in unison when the truck passed below a stooping tree. They had a small cross-like weapon made of bamboo that they used to push up low bugs that might snap the crown of the goddess.

After some time, when the truck entered another neighbourhood, closer to our school, made famous by some pretty chicks who lived there, I found a dozen of boys jumped off the truck and formed a dancing vanguard. The music became louder and wilder rising to a crescendo and I watched in surprise that hundreds of people had thronged over on both sides of the road, mostly women, watching the funny theatrics. I tried to spot a familiar face in the crowd, but to my horror, I found everybody had two faces, almost similar, with some blurring of the features. I was sure rest of the boys were no better, given the royal priming they had.

I asked Gautam. He said presently he held his eyes closed for fear of getting knocked off. He said he was feeling hungry.

We crossed the railway hospital, our school, and the RPF barracks comparatively faster because not many spectators were there, but our tableau came to a halt at the railway crossing as the gate was down for some train to pass. We saw a staff sticking his head out of the window of the east cabin watching the signal at a distance. A couple of trucks stopped behind us, as well as some taxis, people craning their neck to have a glimpse of the departing mother goddess.

At the four-point crossing we got off the crawling truck. By now our procession had reached the bazaar. All the shops were closed except the sweet shops and the paan shops. All three sweet shops had extended their counter outdoors, stacking jalebi and amriti on brass plates. We pulled our pocket money and bought two platefuls. While we gorged on hot crisp jalebis, Bhanuda sent us one more spiked cigarette through a messenger.

“Our tableau will wait at the four point intersection for ten minutes. Quickly finish your eating and come back.” The messenger warned us.

When we joined back, a small crowd was dancing to the beats of drum and the drummer himself was cavorting playing his drum slung in his shoulder and his accomplice, a scrawny little boy kept the rhythm beating the brass disc with a wooden gavel and walked by his side. Bhanuda sheepishly asked, “Want to dance?” Though I wasn’t sure what kind of dance was possible when your legs didn’t listen to your commands; for the sake of pleasing the devil, we joined the party.

There were some boys who, while dancing wildly, held a lighted torch in their hand and sprayed a mouthful of some liquid into the flame making the fire rise up in the air that looked scary. It seemed as if we were part of a legion, going to plunder a city that we had held under seize. I smelled of kerosene in the air and wondered what these boys had consumed to shut their mind off from the danger of kerosene poisoning!

Later when we reached the river bank, we saw at least a dozen of lorries had unloaded their idols and the frenzied volunteers were dancing like mad on the soft mud made mucky by throwing water on it. We saw the crowd standing on the bank beyond the cordoned area. There were many search lights strung across make-shift bamboo poles that had twin loudspeakers fastened at the top bellowing police orders. The entire area was lit up like carnival and temporary stalls sold tea, sweets and petty playing items. Police roamed around guiding the trucks to unload at specified spot and once the immersion was done hurried them to go back.

When our turn came all of us got off from the truck and the idol was lowered from the truck to the ground for a final round of aarti. Boys in red bandanas, stoned by an array of intoxicants began dancing to the tune of the drum again.

Three of us decided to climb the roof of the truck`s cabin instead of dancing. By then the effect of marijuana had almost drained away. We were in desperate need of some poison again, but we had nothing. I felt my mind was clear now and I was able to focus without seeing doubles. In the anonymity of dark, for the trucks were parked at the periphery of the lighted area, we were able to scrutinize the spectators, especially the girls who were watching the animated dance moves of the boys. Gautam, sitting cross-legged next to me suddenly whispered something to my ear. I saw he was holding a half-pint bottle of XXX rum that still had one third of its content inside. It was quite possible that the older boys, who had been sitting here and were brandishing the cutlass of Durga in the air, had bought it for the occasion. They must have forgotten about it after gulping down mouthfuls of neat alcohol that had provided them with instant kicks and in all likelihood wouldn’t come back given their ominous dance moves. Only a couple of them was still upright, on their feet, but rest of them, half a dozen at least, lay sprawled on the ground zonked out and dozed off.

Before I could suggest anything, Gautam unscrewed the lid and took a swig. I followed him and soon Khokan followed the suit. The liquid burnt our throat as if we had swallowed some kind of acid, and felt like suffocated. But we had a bottle to finish! At last when the bottle was finished we were too squeamish to climb down. So, we decided not to risk our lives and slept like puppies on the top of the cabin spiced up, spiked up!

When we got up from the slumber, we found the truck had returned to our pandal and the priest was throwing the incanted water to the devotees. I heard somebody calling my name in the crowd when she couldn’t find me. Craning my neck I saw my mother was looking for me. I shoved my sleeping friends to get up and climbed down.