Ode to a Childhood Friend

Everytime I look at the empty television screen, I remember you dear buddy. The pig-tailed five year old girl with a missing tooth vehemently claiming "girls are better than boys", and you my friend, were wittier for a ten year old, raring to discard his shorts and embrace the long pants. 

The television is now "full HD" and each home has one too many, unlike the years when we would scramble into a neighbour's home that would house the lone B&W TV set to watch Lord Rama shoot magical arrows at Raavan's army. You would be there, leader of the crazy kids' group, the junior vagabonds who were mercilessly honest and outright supportive of a friend who may have been spanked for stealing a few mangoes from the nearby orchard. 

The coloured images flicker on the screen, the clock by my bed stead reads 3:00 am, and I cannot help but remember your beautiful face, the aquiline nose, the kind eyes that dreamt artistic dreams. 

I do not remember the last time we met; all that pops up is the image of the fine gentleman you had grown into. Yet always so kind, benign and oh so intelligent.

Another decade passes by and one day I am informed you left. Gone, just like that. An end, mere thought of which makes me break within. I wish I was there. I heard the "nice small town folks" abandoned you in your final journey. Nobody showed up to hold your tired, crestfallen father. 

You left us buddy, you are away from the steely chill of human apathy. You have taken your sunshine to another realm, well that's what I presume. Well, we will no longer receive the warmth of your love and benevolence. 

Yes, it is dreaded, yes it kills. So does hatred, unreasonable fear. Like a black hole, I am consumed by my own thoughts. It is a void that is seeking answers though I know there aren't any. 

How could they defile your death just because it was AIDS and emanate stigma that multitude of HIV  and AIDS victims are fighting against besides battling the disease? Yes, you could discard his being, yet you would never diminish the glorious light of his soul. 

The mist settles on the blades of grass,  soon to dissolve in the soil beneath. The moon is about to set. On a dreamless night, I just wish you could for once admit "Indeed, girls are better than boys", just one last time.

The Orange Lipstick

In a strange space today. Old memories swarm creating fractured imageries. All too real to believe. Why can't I have a day or even a moment when there is no choice to make? The daily ritual of being torn apart by decisions. I dislike options and yet tied to them. Can I not opt out of options? Shadows scare me no more, plethora of recourses do. Freedom from all this is all I seek. 

And then she asks me,  "So what is it that you are wishing for right now?" It reeks of possibilities to choose. 

"A nice orange lipstick is all I can think of". But then who decides the perfect shade????

When I Was No More a Writer

It rained last night. The trees are green and the roads appear grey. There isnt much that has changed. The reds,  yellows, violets lay strewn announcing their obeisance to the weather gods. I look ahead where the lanes converge in a Triveni. I may choose any which way to continue my walk. I walk back. I want to write about the art of nature. There I am, spacing myself out on the ruins of what may have been once a concrete bench laid outside the palatial house of a medicine baron. The notepad awaits the pain of ink tattooing its way through the sheets. 

Images have lost their shadow and words have defused their sting. I shed waterless tears. I forgot how to write. 

The rain washed away my strife.

Random

Today I drove to the railway station, parked my car near the gate that read 'Exit' and waited, not sure why. Despite that I was there. There they were, reflections of each other and still strangers. They walked, hurried, ran, trudged, gawked and occasionally shot me perplexed looks. I sat there, motionless, somewhat like a sniper. The cars sped past, avoiding close brushes with public buses. The taxi cabs were the notorious one, refusing to move in one smooth motion. They sought passengers, the last few chapters of the journey completed. 

The myriad sounds floated around like the impertinent kids in kindergarten. A few minutes into the wait, the noise is now a symphony of quirky emotions created by the sea of humanity. There was the impatient honk, the timid ring of the cycle rickshaw, the desperation of the motorcycle. The garbled human voices rose and ebbed as they vaporised with distancing steps. 

A part of me sought solitude for years now. They say one can be lonely in a crowd. I have my misgivings for loneliness. Never could separate myself from the thought spurts in my head and hence never fathomed loneliness. Or perhaps I am not intuitive to gauge it.  

Today I was alone amidst the bustling public place. The sounds and sights embraced me, they  cocooned me and atlast I could let go the contortions within. A crazy idea to park at a busy juncture had no special meaning and I retrieved my meaningless self from the claustrophobia purpose created.

The Unclutter Room

Dedicated to Sharmistha Kar. I learnt the right use of bathroom from you sister. Miss you. Will be with you soon. Miss New York.

Is there a particular space in your home that is clandestine? Not that it is physically hidden; it is the relation you share with those four walls and a ceiling that is undercover.

I have one such stealth area. I call it my “Unclutter Room”. No, it is not the storing space or my tiny library-sorts replica. It is, in fact, my bathroom. The toilet seat is the coveted “hot seat”,, whether I attend a nature’s call or just indulge in self muttering. 

Yes, as I adorn that porcelain perch, more often than not I run a mental PPT of my present, past and in all likelihood my tomorrow. Well, it is your tomorrow too, but that’s another story for another day. Images from the past appear cloud-free and crystal clear while those from the present are like “breaking news”. They bombard me with queries to which I seldom have an answer. When I do, I grin or let out a clownish giggle. Am I crazy or constipated, you may wonder, given the amount of time this whole exercise consumes? Like I specified at the very onset, you could find me there even when it’s not a biological necessity. 

Today when my present yet again appeared like a maze of twisted alleys, I sat there wondering why do I do what I do in there? Well, to say the least I like uncluttering my head. Have you ever felt that your brain spins at this insane speed and churns out thoughts, images, possibilities and fears that may not be a part of your reality? I suffer from this intense mobilization of my grey cells that are relentless and very often excruciating. No, I do not intend to proclaim myself as a genius, just saying I have an overactive and over reactive brain. Hence the daily spring-cleaning is crucial for my façade of sanity.

In the mind-boggling times we live, we are often thrown off guard by people, places and procrastination (well, I indulge a lot in the third). And when I am there in my secret hideout, I rejoice in being me. I bare myself to the depths of my emotions and idiosyncrasies. I laugh, cry, curse and mimic at my heart’s content. 

So what if your roommate is careless at time at drives you nuts by leaving her wet towel on the floor? Worry not. You have the magic room. Just lock yourself in there and do a disco number. You can also contort your facial muscles to some hilarious results. Did I hear you complain that your husband is a stickler for perfection? You know where you need to detoxify yourself. In you personal unclutter room. Hiss, snarl and let out a few curse words (harmless in all manner and intent). You would emerge calmer and with a softer heart to forgive your finicky hubby darling.

The list of “2-minute” miracles are abundant and proven, believe you me. I have often slouched on the seat, defeated by the day’s trials and my dear room has never let me down. 

So my lovely darlings and dudes identify your own “special room” and go celebrate your blemishes and insecurities. Just don’t marry them. Clear your thoughts, give your mane a toss and blow yourself a kiss. Or roll your eyes, if that pleases you. These are times of stress and this is the least you can do to nurture your peace of mind and focus on what you aspire.

As I wind up, would you care for a secret? Spiritual liberation is just one of the few surprises you may experience in your “Room”.

A-Social Nirvana

So here I was. Blowing kisses to my cute reflection in the bathroom mirror, it struck me how the move to move away from social media cooled my nerves to Nirvana proportions. Now I mind my game and count my chicken as the eggs hatch.

I would not deny the initial days of estrangement were painful with an uncomfortable silence that gave me the Hibbie Jibbies. What are my friends upto? Who is wringing the other's neck (I mean virtually)? Who flaunted their travel and food destinations through 'check-in'? Who won the 'Whose baby is the cutest' contest? Good lord! I was itching to log back in and dive into the photos and posts and what nots!

As the dust settled, I started regrouping with my friends in real time. Now when we met we did not shoot 'likes' or 'hearts' at each other. We were armed with brutal honesty, patronising advise, some  innocuous, abusive words to shower affection, savoury gossips and warm hugs. This time around, the tears felt salty and the laughter rang a bell. The stories and lives did not leave me as they did when I turned away from my computer or mobile phone. Something was back.

The person who was the most relieved by this renunciation was my beloved mother. The 'anti-social nonsense' as she termed it, was now like a memory of my last boyfriend who she loved to dislike with all her motherly wit and might. Well, what can I say? She has the knack to pick the chaff from grains, a super power most moms have. People reveal far too much on these mediums, she believes, leading to idle conjecture and mootless controversies. "Devil begone, Dugga Dugga", muttered my mother, saluting Goddess Durga and possibly raising a toast with her for this miracle. Ehem! Well, Mom I know you would protest at my choice of merriment that I attributed to you and your goddess but then you can excuse a tiny deviation now that I give up my virtuality.

Anyway, nowadays my days and half of the evenings are filled with contract jargon and provisions. Negotiation tips, business risk appetite kills my real time appetite for some hot rice, daal and aloo bhaja (Bengali's favourite potato fries). Each day leaves a skid mark on the calendar. All that I blabber about is the work load, unreasonable client requirements and opposition's dim-wit lawyers. There are no pouts and selfies and definitely no live videos. Our efforts rarely fetch us 'likes' and 'love'. There is no Facebook debate or Twitter trolling to keep the adrenaline surging. The bosses troll and the debate is more often than not around indemnity and IP rights. And there it is, the itch is back as I desperately look for a diversion from this lethargic grind. Do I or do I not give in?

Decide in negative. Come what may, I cannot let the pressure of social media re-enter my life. Not at the sake of my shelf full of lovers (aka my books, you pervert!). The virtual Me was far too removed from the base Me. I am ordinary, restless, sin-ridden and considerably grey. Possibly a little bit of bi-polarity too sets in now and then. The one hobnobbing on social media is near perfect, precise, suave etc etc. She avoid confrontation, I relish debate. I have bad hair days twice a week, she glistens on the Profile page. I do not want to confront my alter ego each day and thus I give up the Social Me.

So like all good posts, I sign off with some witty introspective question. Did I block out social media or did it exile me?

Thought for the pot!!

When Past Begs for a Present

Why do we live and why do we die? What is the purpose we strive to live for?

In all the rush to make the ends meet and touch expectations, the purpose now hides behind the termite devoured almirah which has history of rickety squabbles and intense passion. Why do we not dust out the one thing that emanates the fragrance of our vague dreams and hopes? Is there no way we can complete the painting and this time with colours reared by the toil of our sweat and sweetness of our breath. Only if our ambition had weaker fuel and our earnestness a sharper edge.

The winter morning struggles against fog as I take the brown forest road to visit my old friend, the old Gulmohar tree. The rough bark feels like silk to my palm as I sit there trying to recall the middle stanza of a Bangla "Chora" Maa recited as she fed us morsels of Loochi.

No song, no tale can soothe my tantrum ravaged heart. Solace I find nowhere. Today I will pull out my rusty dreams of a life I built like a pyramid of cards and let the excuse survive.

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