Material Balance

“Ahh...!!!!!” She said, sipping the hot tea in the cup. She gently lifted the spicy looking samosa from the plate and crunched it between her white teeth, while her tongue savoured the taste of it. Her eyes suddenly threw a concerned look at the flow-sheet we had placed on her table.

She inquired, “Where is the material balance?”

Le....Gosh! All you need now is Material Balance. What the heck? I would have felt much better if I could release the thoughts in the form of words. Every other group had mesmerising clear concepts about the project from their guides, but our samosa woman knew only one single thing, “MATERIAL BALANCE”. I wished if I could bark at her, Ma’am can we know what actually we are doing in the project?

“Ma’am, I think we will have to do that again.”

“Is there any kind of dispute running over you all?”

Her questioning reply hit like a stone on my forehead. I didn’t know from where the word dispute arrived, all of a sudden. To each and every doubtful query she had an answer of her own that diminished our solving hopes and totally altered the direction of our flow through the project. Little did she know what kind of woes we had surpassed not only in starting but even for developing a taste for her silly ketoneous venture. Instead of steering our wheels orderly, she would rather prefer building up a pile of flaws of our sleepless late-night hopeful progressions, which I felt was not so sinful like she expressed with her chesty sentences.

“Ma’am, actually we have a doubt on the final flow-sheet you have proposed to us.”

“What...!!? I suppose you all had shown me the balance for this flow pattern.”

My replying explanation was overlapped right at the start as her mobile phone rang. This was not the first time and it didn’t surprise me, but once again drastically minimized the enthusiasm of an elated interrogation. Yes, we had shown her before, not once but thrice and that too for three different patterns. Each time we presented her so desired balance, the payoff was no different. She would just say with her flattering but self-swollen tone, See now, I am thinking you all have to add something more which I feel will result something much better and practical. Look, why don’t you add a small .........

Why didn’t she seem to understand that her tiny varying innovations per visit boasted of forcing us to throw away ten pages of turmoil to a trash and bearing an ass burning repair of her shitty crap? If she spoke so highly of her beloved material balance, she would really have to know how her time to time small changes can unbalance the whole material and our minds as well. And when I looked at her murmuring sweet voices over the phone, no offence to the one on the other end but I really wanted to relieve myself by fouling my mouth. Not only did mine, all of our four faces revealed what was boiling inside.

Finally, after nearly killing us to what we can call to be the last micron of patience or the first of an outburst, she hung up, gave a toothsome bite of her half devoured samosa and asked us, “What’s your problem, tell me?”

It would have been much more appropriate if I told her that the real problem was she, but that would have surely bankrupted our hopes for the marks. However, she wasn’t so humane in that case too, if referred to the infamous figures on our mark sheets of the last semester despite the hailed membranes we did prepare to save her nose from the others of her kind. But unlike her, I spoke projectciously.

“Ma’am what about the water that goes in through the scrubber? I think some quantity of it would be present in the product and also in the recycle.”

And then she thought. After one month of her profitless blabbering demands finally she got some seconds to think! Were there thirsty desert Arabs inside the husky equipment to finish off the water before it comes out from the column? She had already justified our balancing as correct where we had considered water effect as zero according to her.

She frowned and murmured, “Didn’t you consider the water before? You should have done that.”

It meant that time had arrived for use of the long awaited 20% solubility in water which she had only mentioned to note it in the diagram, but never ever confirmed its appliance. The situation also confirmed her necessity of virtual practicality, though her bookish know-how was out of question. But she wouldn’t lose.

“What have you done to the condenser here! Is this how you symbolise it? Being an eight semester student it’s a shame not knowing it.” She suddenly broke loose and disparaged at us looking at her deskmate.

“It’s okay ma’am. We will correct it.” Chiranjib sounded signalling me to fuck off from the atmosphere which was starting to grow stuffier per second. Our work was over. We had at last cleared our doubt which was pinching me right from the start. And in the context, we also danced a bit in the chance of lowering our unpleasant project queen, though we didn’t show it. But still, in the end we had a new and horrifying material balance ready to boil on our heads.

Addicted To Addiction I

Gates, those that open to you, do close. Strangers, shelled in makeover honey coats, break them. Owners of the ripe, tickles the bad you with the sweetest of themselves. Ranges are real.

“Absolutely no!” he replies. He cuts his toes treading broken lattices of growth bound inner crystals. He disagrees with mists, hissing the spices which he both like and hate at the same time. He stretches coils for detailism and feeds on to them with stone thoughts, damn and smiles. He makes himself live the favourite inkill. He is addicted.

Concentrated bliss melts candled paths to destiny with the heat of your spearheaded truths. The frail sex fills, not the store of desires but the dustbins, you could hardly empty. Choices of worlds only rupture your dreams and leave you half. Honesty serves the worst in the end.

And, he owns a mansion, a huge one. Its tall walls and roof echo all that mean, but fades away with time, surpassing the moonlike effervescences. His crops, manured with fertility of the so called bad liquids and vice smoke and harvested with the joke of reasons, are devoured with the passion of replies. His nocturnal swims in the pool of wilderness are lined with posts lighting rejoice in his ignorance to brains. He is the benevolent Priest, the happiest miser, the romantic Jack, the angriest Puri and himself at best.

Stains of the wiser kin, rampages from the west, expected lusts that had turned to decimals and fame for the flames you never combusted, when starts to grow in you unwatered, they remain; not as ashes of anamnesis, but as phases of disgust. That’s when you crave for being new. He delivers it.

            Devoid of science, devoid of religion, devoid of the invincible quest for truth, he flourishes in his multiple flows to limitless climaxes. He speaks not always of the materials that let anyone fly high; they are just mediums of raising toasts for particulars of selection. He has a firm base, common to all that highlights in his garden of choices. To shear apart foes like hellions, to reach where no soul has ever reached, to plunge into someone he wants forever or to whisper tunes in the wait of his dead end, once the choice is made, he dives and forgets you.

You stare at him and wait for the response to your never resolved matters, those that has slowly transformed from structured robust questions to doubtful faint stammers. You can still predict the same gloom after the end. You stop a while to hang on the thinnest branch of your conscience tree. But, he is proof, he is confidence, he is energy, he is tempt, and most of all; he is the only one left.

He looks back to you with a smile and rhymes with the addictive tone you have never refused before, “I am you, my dear.”

And yes, you are! You are him, and you live again.

After A Goodbye

“Yes! Goodbyes are tough, really tough.”

Not the ones which are formal, prescribed, ceremonial, punctilious and the playfully experimented. Some of them are forced, that show you how easily they can let you march out from their lives after pursuing what you felt as lifetime soul connectivity, but they are the truths and they actually make you believe them. But still they don’t meet the toughness and grief up to the real despairing values, if they are not the ones where you feel you really didn’t want to but had to.

Those are the goodbyes that kill you alive every second for the immorality you were forced to carry out lured by the mind, even after knowing the expected turn up in the end. They are the ones that you faced with a fake smile, hiding the bitterness flowing through each and every part of your inside. Yes! You did think differently, in fact more seriously, more deeply despite knowing the unquestionable probability of a damaged you, ruined you in the ultimate finish. Even then, you were never reluctant. Not because you had gone too far dreaming, not because you had broken the line of your formal privacy, not because you had started to enjoy and appreciate every single moment of it. It’s because you simply or seriously can’t do thinking, “How can I suddenly leave?”

It’s not about love, not about friendship, not about anything you adored to the utmost level of perfection. It’s simply about the habit you did get used to after it did arrive to you when you needed the most. It’s about the exchange of care and understanding. And most importantly, it’s about the togetherness.

But after all you should have to realize that you have to let it go. You will surely need pretexts for that and I guarantee, you will need it if you really feel you have wanted it all your life. That pretext, which will pick few of the stones of agony of a separated life, and reduce the pain by a little extent in order to just make you believe that you said goodbye for a reason. And that will make you live, not convincingly, but you will really live.

Call Of The Fluid

What happens when you know that your head is the only lively thing present all over the environment, and your limbs fly all around? What happens when you feel that today is your day, and you are going to live it to the fullest? What happens when you can reply someone with the truest of thoughts, irrespective of the lie beneath which you usually word out? What happens when you feel you are in the top of the world, and you care for none, not even yourself? What happens when you feel you can do anything? What happens actually when you know yourself? These questions, the answers of which hardly power your zeal in a normal day, just can make you only utter the following words, Last night; it was too much for me.

Talking about the hangover in the morning, the most unbearable health related problem that have been distasting addicts for ages, such was the situation for me on that Sunday morning. I woke up to find myself on the floor which was gardened with the empty rum bottles, half left pegs, chicken leg pieces, chips with their packets and ashes of burnt cigarettes everywhere. Is this my room or hell!!! I exclaimed to myself hardly believing that was the particular place where I slept the night before. That abnormal dizziness circling around the head and the puking sensation from inside was just burdening me. The screaming lectures of the night faintly disturbed my ears. And the foremost need, the thirst for water dried out my throat. In fact everything was welcoming me, hey you, back to reality, again.

Reality!!!??? What actually was unreal about yesterday night? Unreality is not always about having a joy ride in a chariot above the skies. Unreality is not always about attaining superpowers to rule the world. Unreality is not always about being famed or infamed overnight. Unreality is not always about being what you feel is unreal.

It’s sometimes the moment when you can feel your existence everywhere. It’s when you know your involvement in each and every second of time. It’s when you work on even the neglected normal thoughts by digging to the depth of yourself. In fact you are true and always true on every single movement of yours. But the interesting case in all these is that they are all real. Yes, they are real, considering unreality as the depth of reality.

The hot tea and the poached egg at Panky’s did serve a little for a relaxation, but failed to erase the odour emerging from my mouth. A light smoke under the ceiling fan of my room went well. I felt I was standing sick and confused between two different worlds, one the stressful reality and other the reality of the world of mine which I always crave for. Finally, I did remember. I took out the unfinished bottle from my drawer. The crystal red rum looked awesome. The magnitude of its call was luring and hard to resist. Despite the situation at that moment which showed its devastating nature, the fiery but flavorous entry of its flow through the throat to the inner core of the chest made me think high.

There was a world standing to adore me to its centre and make its heavenly flow from the limbs to the tiny capillaries of my blood cells. There was a world that was vehemently awaiting my arrival to appreciate every moment of it. That was a world of relief, a world to forget everything but to live life. Surely, that was my world and it was my reality.

I cheered to myself, “It’s Sunday yaar.........!!!!!!!”

TRIP UNTRIPPED

“Where is the camera Keleng?” Psycho asked.

Keleng remained unreacted, his head still moving up and down and fingers trying to dance out the music of the song he was listening on the earphone.

“Just open the headphone and speak up Keleng!!” I screamed at him to tear through his ears which were still deeply engrossed in Akon’s number Angel.

Rajdeep laughed looking at the headphone boy, “Still nothing .....!”

At this Keleng became aware of the talk about him that we three were discussing. He opened the thing, looked at everyone and exclaimed, “What?”

“Where is my camera that I had kept under the hats besides you when you were sitting on the lobby sofa?” I asked again, this time more specifically.

“It’s not with me.”

“What do you mean it’s not with you....?????”

“Yeah, I said it’s not with me?”

I was shocked, I didn’t believe him even for an inch. I smiled at him and patted his back, “Don’t bluff now okay, you can’t fool me every time...haha.”

“I can swear to the name of anything man, it’s not with me.” He sounded serious and it pinched me inside. I still kept a smiley face and asked again, “Okay, it’s not with you, and so where did you keep it?”

He explained, “See, I was sitting on the sofa when you kept it there. I was listening to my songs, and every now and then someone or the other came and kept their things, and signalled me to watch them. How could I watch everything? Suddenly I knew that I was going through a confused mind and .........”

“And now you don’t know where is the fucking camera. Is that what you are going to say..? What a joke...!!!!!” I angered out with rage. I felt I was about to crash his headphone to pieces and knock him down with a blow. How could he forget the camera which had everything?

I still had hopes. I pierced my hands inside my bag and strangled through everything inside. It didn’t result any fruit expect the towels, inner wears, jeans and t-shirts. Not only me but all four of us were doing the same search in front of a few curiously staring night trespassers of Park Street. I was tensed, worried and exhausted. Where might be the camera? I thought. I took out my cell to see the time that showed ten. I scrolled down the phonebook and dialled Paw.

“Where are all of you? I have been waiting for such a long time.” Paw said, his voice hardly revealed the camera situation.

“We will be there, first tell me did I give you my camera?”

“Yeah you gave me but you took it back again. Why?”

“I have lost it. Please check if it’s inside your bag.”

“Okay.” He hung up the call.

“Hey did you say you kept it under the hats?” Psycho asked me trying to remember something.

I felt he found it. My words raced into his, “Yes, where is it?”

“Actually I gave the hats to the girls, but I didn’t find it there.” He displeased me again.

I didn’t know what to do. No one seemed to know the value of the camera, not monetarily but what I had collected during the trip was no less than an unforgettable memory of my life. I had nothing in my mind except the camera. I ran back with pace to the Assam House, the place where I had last seen it while Keleng followed my speeding legs.

15 hours ago.........

“Wake up sleepy head, you are not in your hostel bed.” A familiar voice disturbed my sleeping thoughts.

I opened my lazy eyes to see Psycho pulling away the blanket that covered my body. The place was different. There was no billionare baba poster on the wall, there was no breakfast near my bed that Kanchaa used to deliver in the mornings, there were no LAN wires hanging in the window, actually I was not even in my room. I realised that two consecutive lengthy train journeys had certainly affected my mindset for a moment. I was in a lodge of Bengal’s most famous tourist spot, DIGHA BEACH.

Within minutes we were prepared for the beach visit. We dressed in shorts, all set to take a gracious bath in the Bay of Bengal. I was excited, a first timer in a beach of course. And so were Keleng and Psycho.

“Don’t forget the camera.” Psycho said to me.

“Oh! Nice of you to remember me.” I said and I took out the cannon digicam out of my bag and hurried out of the room.

“A packet of gold flake, Dada.” I treaded into a pan shop for the first smoke of the day as we three strolled past the numerous shops and hotels that lined up besides the busy road to the beach. The area was full of shops that had uncountable varieties of conches, shells of the beach shaped into rings and necklaces of all kinds, hats and sunglasses for anyone to look like a perfect beach visitor, bags, mattresses, hotels that served the best of sea fishes and prawns and what not. I bought a hat and sunglasses and so did the duo. But, one single thing that really made me high was the sight of the beach beauty which was lightly visible like an endless world far beyond. SNAP, I had a shot. Awesome, I said to myself. I lit one of the cigarettes and puffed out, “Hey boys, let’s go!!!!!!!”

                 The sun had just started to dazzle as we reached the shore of Bay of Bengal. I detached the sandals from my feet and walked up to the sand to feel the beats of the waves that licked my legs and let the brown sands stick all over them. The scenery was indeed beautiful. The sea waters reflected even the slightly noticeable rays of the sun that looked like glittering diamonds everywhere. And the most amazing feeling was that the sea never seemed to cease, there was water and only water all over, not a thing far beyond. I was nothing in comparison to its massiveness. It was exactly the view I thought to be worth a shot to add to my collection of the trip’s photos, and I did take it.

“Will you like to try a drink, bhai?” a man who carried two tin buckets supported on his shoulders by a wooden rod, asked me.

“What is it?” I inquired.

“Fermented khajoor!”

“Does it make you high???”

“At least try it boy, then say.”

“Okay give me one.”

He had two types of drink, one brown in colour which was directly juiced out from the dates found near the shore, and one white which was the fermented version of the first. I had the brown one first but couldn’t stop with only one glass, I had three of them and another three of the fermented drink.

“That was great, pure date juice of Bengal’s shore, umm.....” I exclaimed.

Not only khajoor drinks, the shore was well filled with lots of things for the visitors, a ride on a horse or a fuel powered sea boat, fried crabs and prawns for a feast, coconut water and so on.  Far away I spotted a place full of coconut, date trees and a wonderful casuarina groove over the white sands. I thought what a view it would be from that place above.

“Hridoy!!! Come here.....its great here....” someone was cheering at me from a distance. I heard my name but couldn’t make out what exactly he was trying to say. I saw that our whole group was there, dancing and playing with the waters and waves and I waved at them with a smile. I turned to Keleng, “Let’s go there.” I said pointing to the breezing trees. Keleng nodded. Psycho wasn’t there, he had already rushed into the waters to join the guys.

“Hey, it’s already one hundred fifty.” I said to Keleng as I saw the number of the photos collected in my camera. It seemed that moments after every ten seconds of our stay in the resort, had been marked. When sequence wise viewed, they could tell you each and every story behind the scenes, be it the walk to our lodge at night the day before, be it the late night cards with beer, be it the walk towards the beach covering all the things we had bought and posed with them or be it the ever ecstatic views of the great sea, in fact everything. I smiled and thought, This will be a memory for the years to come. But there were much more to come.

              We gasped for breaths as we reached the grooves, we were tired after that long half walk half run journey from the waters. The white sand and the casuarinas looked amazing but the view of the sea from the place was the best of all, and I couldn’t stop my hands for another chaaliya shot of the trip. The place was cool and peaceful, and we two posed for some hero-look poses under the shadowy areas of the trees. I pierced myself into the white sand up to the knees and Keleng captured my heroism.

“Bhailog, jaayengay kya border tak...?” a biker down at the end of the small hill of sand shouted at us when we were busy searching for the best shots.

We ran up to him. Keleng asked, “Border...???”

“Haan, wahan pe Orissa ka border hain. Ek ka eksoh.”

We readily agreed and in no time we were sitting on a CBZ which was rode by our biker cum guide who introduced himself as Sushant Patnaik, a citizen of Orissa. It was a great feeling to travel in a bike while the waves approached us but only to hit the tires of the vehicle. I looked back to see the tire marks on the sand, but they were constantly washed away. WHAATTA RIDE!!!

             Fishes and fishes, crabs and crabs, prawns and prawns, that was what the border consisted of. I had never seen such varieties of aquatic creatures before. Fishes of unbelievable shapes, flat, wide, fat, conical etc. and colours that of the rainbow, crabs which I thought each one could be specified in a different manner just amazed my mind.

“Ye pakro to sahi.” Sushant forwarded a crab to me.

“Kaantegaa kya?”

“Naa..naa.”

I hesitated at first seeing the thorny limbs that seemed to me like it was searching for anything to grasp, but finally held it up. I opened my mouth to bring it near so as to pose for a fresh lively crab treat as Keleng snapped it on the camera. Keleng did that too, for which I was the photographer. We laughed out at the photos heartily. There were shots at the fishermen boats too as we posed like the protagonists of sea adventure stories. Far away there was an island, which our guide referred to as a place of utmost beauty and my camera did the rest of the job. Overall, the border visit was fabulous and we really had a hesitating return back to the main beach.

“Agli baar aaye to girlfriend bhi leke ana.  Main sab intejaam kar doongaa.” Sushant advised us as we got down from the bike to pay him.

“Jaroor.” We said with a blushful laugh and captured his smile to bid him goodbye.

We joined the remaining girls and boys of our group to find them photographed by an old beach photographer. He saw us and immediately persuaded me, “Aap dono bhi leejiye.”

“Nahin, mere paas ye hain.” I replied showing him my digicam.

We had lunch at a beach hotel with tasty Pom fish and fried prawn. It was sad we were going to leave the place after a short period of time. We had a bus at three thirty and had to do the packing soon.

“Smile please!!” Moon da yelled as we posed for a group photo in front of our lodge, with the cowboy hats on our heads and the luggage on our side, and he added another click to my camera’s collection. We all waited for any kind of vehicle to take us to the bus stand. Soon, some typical Digha cycle rickshaws arrived and we mastered our place onto them. The rickshaws were different than our native ones, they had no cushion seats and no chaatas but an open aired big wooden plate for the customers to sit.

Our hearts streamed with joy as the rickshaw driver played an old Hindi song on his old fashioned musical system. It was perfect for a goodbye video to Digha. Psycho took my camera and started off for it. We cheered as we went past the shops, hotels and the beach people all around, while Kishore’s voice in the number Jaanu Meri Jaan, Main tere Qurbaan.... rang all around us. We danced with joy. What a goodbye to this amazing place!!!??? Bye Digha.......Wish I were always here.

Nearly two hours of a boring bus journey had passed but, still Keleng was dozing off besides me. My sleeplessness during bus and train travel had always made me suffer. I switched on the cannon to see our snaps of the place just for passing the lengthy and tedious time. Each photo had a certain story behind it and they again took me to where I had returned from. The smiles on our faces, the heftiness of the sea, the flying poses all around, every single click revealed to me what I have never found before. They showed how even a half day in a place like that can mitigate all the monotony and dullness of the daily core of our lives we spent regularly. There were no assignment like approaches, no frustrations for incomplete courses, no running for clearance cases, nothing at all, only joy all around the two hundred fifty two photos and the last touch video.

“Your photos have made me jealous.” Paw said to me as we got off the bus in Park Street. His statement carried me to the extreme height of self-esteem. I raised my collar and replied with a proudly smile, “Depends on who clicks them.”

-----------

I searched, searched and searched, starting from the sofa to the floors, wall corners to the dustbins, reception table to the first floor canteen, nearby shops to the garden, everywhere but only to result in vain. Not even in my wildest dreams had I dreamt of such a loss, a loss not of money but, a loss of my memories associated with it, a loss of my existence in a heavenly place, a loss for which I would forever cry.

“The girls called, they don’t have it.” Rajdeep murmured with a disappointing tone.

“Same with the boys too.” Anuraag added to my disdain.

The last hope was Paw. I dialled him once again hoping for what would be the greatest joy of my life.

“Sorry bey...naai mur bagot.” I heard him and there was I standing with a what-to-do mind.

“Keleng please try to remember again.” I pleaded to him.

“The answer will still be the same.” He regretted.

“BULLSHIT!!!!!!! I didn’t go to Digha at all.” I cried aloud.

Cards and beer were ready as usual in our new lodge, but the only lively unusual thing was our minds. Despite everything, we started for our games and drinks while regretful discussion blew all over the room.

“I will miss the video.” Rajdeep said almost killing himself.

Keleng roared, “Our poses!!! All gone.”

“Don’t worry, the other cameras have some of your photos.” Hrishi tried to sound with a consoling way to me.

I didn’t have any expression to anything going on. There might be a lot of my photos in other cameras, but I knew that those would be feeling less when compared to the ones I had captured with mine. I still felt that someone had found it and was dialling my number, so my cell phone was going to ring soon.

“Shit, shit, SHIT!!!!! Digha is washed out.” Psycho yelled with anger and frustration.

I sipped in the beer and said to him, “You know Psychs........I need to write soon.”

His Birthday Speech

“Cheers to the great Mr. Bairagi!!”

Numerous voices roared aloud along with the clinking sound of the liquor filled glasses. It was his forty second birthday and as usual it was huge. His well lightened large garden glittered like a small piece of heaven. Lavish dishes and desserts of uncountable varieties were served to the hundreds of guests while they filled their glasses with the Paris wine, Irish whiskey and the Caribbean rum, all imported but abundant. His beautiful swimming pool besides the garden looked graciously blue reflecting the red-green-yellow lights all around. The slow jazz music by a reputed orchestra blended with the wonderful party atmosphere.

            “It’s all for you.” He said with his massive personified voice. His suit was eye catching. A perfectly adoring grey coat with a well tailored silver lining over his white sleeves, black expensive formal pants, and polished shining shoes did show that he was really someone hardly anyone could not know. His wife stood holding his arm close. She was a damn beauty. Her fashionable red sari, her newly made curls of the brown hair and the alluring blue eyes gave her such an amazing look that not a soul could resist himself from envying the husband.

A young voice from the crowd requested, “Sir, we would love to hear from you.”

            It was always great to listen to the nicely chosen and juice filled words of the owner of BAIRAGI INDUSTRIES, the greatest ruling company of the state and of course if it happens to come from the mouth of one of the richest persons in the city. His fame for the massive enterprise he owned at an age when others served the cabins of companies controlled by old stern heads was high, but to a large extent his dignified non egoistic speeches was recognized to a greater perimeter.

He sipped in the wine from his glamorous designed long glass and started off with a smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, first of all I would like to extend my heartiest thanks to all of you for coming and being a part of this little celebration of mine. Today, in my forty second birthday, my gladness has no limits to be standing close to my beautiful wife, and also you all for celebrating to your highest level as possible. Next, I am assuring you that I am not going to talk about any company-related crap today, no business, no presentations, and no clarifications. But today I am going to share with you a story.

The mass murmured their low whispers story......story...what a....story. The eyes fixed themselves again to the orator, their attentive minds trying to figure out what kind of a story could a man like him compose out on a special day.

Yes guys, you heard me right, it’s a story. I would love if all of you listen to me attentively without any interruption. It starts like this.....

            It’s a busy evening at the usual crowded Paltan station when the Kamakhya Express screeches to a halt. A teen face pops out of the boggy door somewhere at the end of the long vehicle. He steps out with a fat bundle that represents a village sewed traditional cloth knotted around to support his things like a bag. From his looks he seems to be the typical concerned strange faced village piece, who is new to all the insanities of a new city he treads into. The sweater, trouser and the hawaii chappals that cover his thin body is old and torn in few areas showing the constant usage by the nineteen year old boy.

“Kot jaabee?” an autowalla growls aloud to the thoughtful mind as he keeps stealing around glances by his confused eyes. He lets his hand search the pockets to produce a small piece of paper. He reads out, “How much will you charge for Commerce College?” His words clearly reveal the fact of his little knowledge of the mentioned place.

“Not more than one hundred.”

He takes out a small cloth, tied around in a knot. The voice of his widowed mother still ringing in his ears, “Son, take this with you. This is all I can give you now to support your journey.” He knows what a tough time his mother had to go through even at the expense of her respect, so that she could see her son eat and study like all other kids. He opens up the knot to find two twenty rupee, six ten rupee notes and some coins.

“Will you go for fifty?”

“Not even for a ninety.” The man barks out and eyes for other victims over the busy area.

He sighs with a deep what-to-do breath. He feels his empty stomach give a slight roar of vibration. He remembers the small tin box his mother had put inside the bundle and her words “Open this when you are hungry.”

Within no time he is strangling his hands around the rotis and the sabjis his mother had prepared with her rough working hands. But he stops, he notices a little soul with tattered clothes eagerly looking at him in the hope if he was kind enough to hand him some of them. He sees that even beneath the materiality and the monotony all around there are some like him who seeks humanity.

“Hey, come here.” He calls out to the poor fellow. The little boy immediately rushes to him to lay out his hand.

“Are you hungry, boy?”

The tiny beggar nods, the little eyes still on the rotis.

“Will you help me with this new city, boy?”

The little one nods again, this time with a smiley face.

            And the two sits amidst the busy and hellishly built atmosphere of the city enjoying to the fullest and savouring the rotis and the sabjis heartily.

Thank you all for listening.

The young voice that had requested his speech said, “Sir, that was a really touching commoner story. But will you like to explain why you choose to narrate it on this special day and also what happened to the boy later.”

“Actually, that was me twenty three years ago, and what happened later on is exactly before your eyes.”

The Lustful Self-Deception

 “Beltola, Beltola......Paltan.....”, the grumpy words of the handyman sounded all over as I made a rushing entry into the city bus and placed myself on the last seats. He was a little fellow and his rapid blabber seemed more like a pandit rhyming his mantras during a bhagwat-puja. It was a dusty noon of a typical scorching summer Sunday and the usual long wait of the bus in the Jalukbari stop made me sigh. All faces inside, being bluffed by a number of tricky initiations of the engine, desperately awaited the finally sure start of the journey.

“Where will you go, Baideu?” the little handyman asked looking at someone outside.

“Panbazaar”, she responded with the softest of tones aided by a sweet soothing voice. My eyes flavoured her slow casual steps through the two mini stairs at the back door of the bus. She let her black glossy eyes roam all over to mumble her flaccid red lips, “Damn it....not a single empty seat!”

Jeez!!! She was pretty. She was white but not that snowy. Some strips of her long straight hair fell out to disturb her angel face, and she brushed them back with those tender fingers of her beautiful soft hand. She stood in the midst of other blurry figures and her black eyes revealed an adorable innocence and a caring concern. A red top over her lovely ups and lustrous skin, a skin-tight jeans that shaped out her timid limbs, a pair of heels dressing her tiny feet, two small but shining ear rings, one each pierced into the lower flaps of her two cute ears, a pink bangle on her right wrist, a lady bag on her left shoulder and an ecstatic scent of the perfume that breezed out from her appealing sexy body, presented a heavenly beauty that made me forget the steaming heat of the sun in a moment.

The conductor disturbed my thirsty thoughts, “Please Bhai.” He said holding out a hand as he signalled for the fare.

“One, Panbazaar.” I handed a five rupee note and said, a bit louder attempting to pinch her ears with the mention of the place she was going. But she was unmoved. She looked desperate for something else. May be, she was late for something, a birthday party, a movie perhaps. Or maybe, If I could help you with anything, I thought as if she was noticing me concerned about her. Though she looked tensely engrossed in the mysterious reason of hers, the density of her strained expressive face, the sigh on the one side bent juicy lips, rapid breaths of her sweet nose and the glitter of her artistic eyes, threw at me a lusty attraction.

Hi, I am Avinash, what’s your name beautiful? I practiced thoughtfully, a number of times, about how to start a conversation when we reach our stoppage. Not only that, her lovely reactions to my teasing, lists of dates featuring our unending romances, my precious gifts to her, my passionate kisses savouring the honey all over her and even our nervous first night together flashed in my eager mind. The human mind, I say it’s the most complicated thing ever built. It’s amazing, viewing the fact how it relates two complete unknown strangers so closely, just in a fraction of time.

Finally, the bus reached Panbazaar. She hurried past everyone to get down, while I followed behind, holding my nerve streams and planning to produce a fruitful result of the conversation which I had vehemently awaited during the whole journey. I opened out my mouth to say the words, but they suddenly stopped somewhere in the middle of my throat as my eyes structured a situation, I had never actually hoped about its possibility.

A boy about my age adored her welcome. She smiled at him and exclaimed how sorry she was for the late arrival. He held her hand gently and the couple walked away laughing about something that seemed very special to them.

There was I, still standing and thinking how my soliloquy had deceived me. It just took a second once again to feel about coming to my real life again. What a world, I was in a moment ago! I felt. I lit a cigarette and smilingly puffed out a tiny cloud of smoke, “Fuck......!!”

The Road Left

Of the night that serves the demoral soup,
As if nothing, I am standing sick.
The darkness leaking in every nook,
Hearty confessions of the road, my limbs did lick.
A smile with a sigh comes across;
 It's only that tempts me to the old rhythm,

Concealing the vices that arrives in gross
That's the bitter truth I bear within.
A casual walk won't do it now.
Its time I curtailed my acidic laments
And crammed the stanzas how
To abort the memories of the undying moments.
My insane mind finds out a way,
Where no nightingales' entertain
And a voice inside longs to say
That destiny destines the destination of man.

A smoke on the corridor bench

A winter midnight creeps in,

An army of dogs that howls aloud;

Breaks the silence of the night of mine,

Where I sit on the corridor bench with baba beside.

Hellish beats of the heart

Pierces my orgasmic mind,

And nervy streams of my hand flatters me

To lift the delicately lying little baba.

Ah! The smell I say its

Like the one I have lusted for ages.

It says, “May I come in?”

As I place it on my dry rusted lips.

So it goes flushing through my throat inside

Like a sea where hellions bathe.

But kills every agony of me inside

During its gracious return.

I open my red swollen eyes.

A cold breeze slaps away my face

And spot the peck of light from a distant hill.

And I say to myself

“What a night it’s been tonight!”

Where I still lay on the corridor bench with baba beside.

A Night's Painting

Midnight crept as the old painter stood staring at his old masterpieces that had amazed innumerable minds decades ago. His trembling right hand held a peg of whiskey and his rusted lips supported a burning cigarette. A worn out coat, an old pyjama and a pair of chappals covered his thin bony figure and his eyes traversed every nook and corner of his art gallery which was once the most famous centre of exhibition in the city. Pausing by the "The Bridge", he tried to recollect the fortune that was showered on to him and most importantly his fabulous life that prevailed during those days.
These daily observations were not unusual for him. But that day was different. It was the day of his anniversary and to his utmost regret his wife had left him thirty years ago. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gulped a shot and looked his most favourite work, "Beauty of a Lifetime" which depicted her, ornamented with the lovely ring he gifted in their wedding. Her demise arrived in exchange of every little joy in his life as a merciless fate was bestowed upon him. Every time he thought about the sudden trajectory, every time it killed him inch by inch. He also seemed to have lost his smooth elegant touch with the brush that existed earlier, while various new painters conquered the minds of the customers. In spite of all his loss, she left behind one their precious creations to take of, their own little son.
Releasing a heavy puff, he roared a hard cough and a pile of memories of their happy little family ran through him without permission. He recovered from his shattered mind and gave a smile as he remembered his dreams of his son emerging to be a better painter than his father and in fact the best ever in the world. Like him, the little one too had the early knack of brushing out landscapes, portraits and antiques with ease.
"Father, I got first in the inter-school!" the boy from the fourth class yelled with excitement and playfully swung the medal around. He kissed his son on the forehead and said, "I am proud of you, my boy."
"One day I'll use your brush and canvas to make the greatest painting in the world", the little one replied.
But his sunny days were short lived. A few weeks later fate sung the rhyme of an adverse prelude by taking away his love forever, leaving him bewildered and damaged. This left his son astonished too. One could hardly imagine the effect of losing one's mother at such a small age. Though he continued, his paintings seemed to yield little of the earlier juice in them that attracted his fans. Sometimes he would remain lonely for hours engrossed in contradictory thoughts. Wealth started to degrade rapidly and it became difficult for him to sustain his normality. His son grew up gradually to a teen, then to a young person, but in all these years he never took to his father's profession by the core of his heart. The boy got curtailed in the bad winds of the city and the little artist in him got erased bit by bit, which deeply agonized his father.
Sometimes he would make his son sit with him explaining the ideologies of the world and how he should take to his artistic view of life. But it resulted in vain as he had to search for the distracted soul for days only to find him smoking weed in the vulgar corners. He was in debt, struck by disease and hardly could make his two ends meet. If only, his son could aid him with the slightest possible contribution. But still, the man loved him because he was the only left gem, his only little son in his remaining life. He hoped that his boy would soon step into his shoes and fulfil his dream. His disease had made him weaker day by day and a consolation from his son was the last thing he wished for.
A cold breeze made the old man shiver to his tender bones and suddenly arose from all these distant memories. His empty whiskey bottle flushed disappointment in him. Drunken thoughts powered the trembling hand to grasp a flat brush. He soaked it deep in the grey bowl of color and stroke it in the blank white canvas for another night's paint.
"Father", he whispered, "Wake up Father ', the boy screamed shaking the old man's shoulder. Shocked, he stood, he saw that the lean body in the chair had turned cold, his father was no more.
Dropping on his knees he held him tightly and glanced at the painting that lied against his dead father. A tear drop twinkled down his face as he saw the little one kissed by his father.
He rose gently lifting the brush from the frozen hand and soaked it. Slowly he went up to where he had always tried for but couldn't, and laid the first stroke on his father's canvas.