When Silence Speaks

The Other Couple

2011-01-14T10:46:00.001-08:00

“Can I get us a Pepsi?”

“I don’t drink Pepsi.”

“Limca?”

“No.”

“Mirinda?”

“Noooo.”

“Fruity?”

“You are such a kid!”

“Chips?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Am I too boring to spend a couple of hours with? For heaven’s sake, we just meet once in a week!”

I resigned to a ‘non-aeriated’ fate and muttered a careful, “I’m sorry.”

“Seriously! What’s your problem?”

“I am thirsty.”

“Ufff…You’ll never grow up”, she remarked disgusted.

The situation was somehow salvaged by an angelic cola-wala who happened to pass by the very place at the very moment.

We were sitting on the well maintained lawn of one of the very few such parks in the city. Needless to say that above mentioned rarity made it a popular hangout for couples. Especially those who were too intimidated by the glittering malls and the other ‘sophisticated’ type who had got fed up of such ostentatious display by a shrewd capitalistic world whose idea of national growth was necessarily aimed at creating an economic imbalance in which money was constantly milked from an unsuspecting working class. “You are earning big buck because our economy is growing. You need to spend in ‘smart and happening’ objects to maintain your position in the society and to maintain the growth of the economy.” Bull shit! If everyone was passing on the money to everyone else, how come seventy percent of Indians never needed a bank account!

A slightly elderly couple took a place underneath a tree beside us. Their trendy dresses concealed their age. They were probably in their mid thirties. The woman’s eyes were moist. He was constantly patting her head and caressing her arms. She laid her head on his composed shoulder. His efforts seemed to relax her gradually. It was as if no worldly evil could harm her as long as she was with him.

“See how much he cares for his girl”.

“Seems so. I wonder how people continue to love each other so much even after marriage”, I said.

“Who said love is time bound,” she retorted.

“Time does take its toll on a lot of relationships.”

“You are too negative at times. Can’t you see how happy they are with each other! And they must have been married for ten years or so”.

Our couple had cheered up considerably. He was narrating something to her with animated expressions and she responded with frequent smiles. They looked like an ideal couple.

“I wonder why married people have to venture into parks,” I asked.

“Taking a break from kids I suppose.” “He looks smart”, my lady added.

“Good for him”. I smirked.

“Good for her.”

“Sad for you”.

“That’s enough”, she smiled pinching me on the forearm. “My baby is smart too.”

“But not as smart as that dude there.”

“Agreed”, she said after pretending to think vigorously for a couple of seconds.

Outsmarted, I hugged tightly her with my right arm.

For the next hour or so, the world shrank leaving just the two of us to ourselves. We were part of the crowd yet not really a part of it.

The sky had turned pitch dark and the neon street lights had come to their full effect. The adjacent building too seemed to be radiating life as the city prepared for another night. We prepared to leave the when we heard a cellphone ring nearby.

Underneath the tree, where the other couple had been sitting, an abandoned phone blinked haplessly to the tune of it’s ringtone.

“It’s the woman’s phone,” my girl said. “I had seen her keeping it on the ground.”

“They probably just realized the phone is missing”, I concluded and proceeded to pick it up.

RAHUL CALLING... Must be the guy.

I picked up the call and greeted the caller with the customary “hello”.

“Uncle uncle, where is Mamma?”

Totally taken aback, I was completely lost for words.

“She is on her way back beta”, I managed to reply.

“Ok. It is very scary here. The lights have gone out.”

“I’m sorry beta. Don’t worry Mamma and papa will return very soon.”

“But papa left for America. He won’t come this month.”

“Right beta. I totally forgot. Pappa is in America.”

“Are you mamma’s friend?”

My throat had dried up. I paused for a while.

“Yes beta. I am mamma’s friend.”

“Then please tell mamma to return”.

She hung up.

“Who was it”, my girl enquired.

“A kid,” I replied. “They had left her at home”.

“That’s a bit irresponsible. Don’t you think so?”

I nodded in agreement and gripped her hand firmly.

Was it a bird? Or was it a plane?

2010-07-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you something. And no matter how fairytale-ish this thing of mine may sound, the fact is that every word I scribble is spoken like a true Yudhistir and I sincerely hope that the lack of involvement of elephants (of all ages) should aid in my confidence building measures. Talking of elephants, I don’t see too many of them around (though it isn’t too far from Kurukshetra). Too much of deviation! The point is I’m claiming this to be a totally true story and whether or not you trust me on it is among the least of my botherations at the moment.

Back in 1957, my entire family was located in suburban Silchar. Though I’m not sure if the size of Silchar entitles it to possess a few suburban areas none the less I cannot find a better way to describe Rosekandi, which is about half an hour away from Silchar. My father was associated with one of the tea estates and both my uncles were teachers in a high school. Apart from the adults, our family boasted of a mini-football squad of nine children belonging to the age group eight and fourteen. There was no shortage of unity among this entity and even local kids never dared to take on such an intimidating force. The group was in fact further subdivided into juniors, ranging between ages of eight and ten and seniors, who had at least witnessed a couple more years of mother earth as compared to the former. I was the unofficially appointed leader of the lesser experienced category.

Now it so happened, that on a summer afternoon when the entire lot of us were at school, the sky grew grey, the breeze picked up and soon was literally sending objects topsy-turvy. The immediate decision to be taken was whether to make a dash for home before things got worse or wait at the school itself. There was no questioning the fact that the second option was the safer one. But the uncertainty factor associated with the duration of the impending calamity and the doubts hovering over the ability of the muddy roads to withstand a prolonged downpour was rather high. However, my decision to lead the junior half of the platoon back home as quickly as possible was primarily due to the lack of patience. The seniors refused to join us in our adventure and their relatively smaller proximity to adulthood did not permit them to feel secure about leaving us on our own. Finally, after a rather loud session of bargaining, it was decided that one of the seniors would accompany us back home. And that unfortunate soul was Ranadhir Bhattacharje, our beloved Rana da because he was the only one who somehow had been carrying a ‘grandfather’s umbrella’ on that crazy summer’s day.

I doubt if we had managed to cross the halfway mark when we realized that the storm was already upon us and no further progress was possible by either practical or theoretical means. A cool breeze whistled past us. For shelter, we found a place where the road had sloped down hurriedly into a dry pond. Random vegetation, having made the most of the waterless condition, had sprouted all across the bed giving it a rough appearance. From some basic calculations we came to the conclusion that the steep slope would provide sufficient support in the given situation. Thus no time was wasted in taking the decision whose implication had all of us rushing towards the undulation.

The storm rammed into us almost immediately as all of us ducked for cover. We lay flat on the ground as the strong winds blew above us. A major error in our earlier mentioned calculation was exposed when the all-mighty decided to heave bucket-full of heavenly water onto us. Perplexed at the unexpected barrage Rana da flashed out his giant umbrella which without too much disobedience to laws of physics sprung upwards, struggled for a couple of seconds before finally breaking free from the beholder’s manly clutches and making a dash for the infinite. In a final attempt of re-captivation Rana da made determined lunge upwards towards the floating umbrella. And then, it happened.

It wasn’t as significant as Wright brothers taking off in 1903. Nor was it like the launching of Apollo 11 which was read and re-read a million times. But for those of us on the ground on that crazy summer’s day, it was what I would say, would easily pass as the sight of the generation. The point is Rana da didn’t come down. Propelled exclusively by wind energy at its efficient best, he travelled at least a mile before finally managing to land on the roof of a mud-house. His subsequent descent from the roof, though hilarious in itself is something we can put aside.

It took considerable time for the magnitude of the event took sink into us. For days, we went into splits with laughter recalling the incident. Rana da himself was initially not very pleased when people spoke of his feat but began to spot the humour as days moved by. And a generation of Rosekandi-ans were left speculating, was it a bird? Or was it a plane?

At the bus-stop on the 28th day

2010-07-07T09:05:00.000-07:00

Day 28:

The busy road turned sharply at a desolate location. Another, lesser used one, originated abruptly from this point. And at this very unimportant junction a lonely bus stop had dawned into existence much to the ignorance of most bus conductors.

The sky had lit up after being hidden by stubborn monsoon clouds for most part of the day. Vehicles hurried through potholes much to the annoyance of the puddles of water resting peacefully in them. A bright red bus swerved to the side and halted right in front of him.

“Udupi, udupi, udupi”, screamed the conductor, poking his head out of the door.

For a couple of seconds he wondered where he was going till eventually, his trance broke.

“Kya boss? Udupi?”

He nodded hastily much to the frustration of the conductor and the bus took off once again.

Day 9

“Should I get you pop corn”, he asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Something to drink?”

“It’s ok. You don’t have to get anything. Please remain seated.”

“Fine. I wanted you to have something for company before I got lost in the movie.” He kidded.

“Really? I thought the plot did not interest you.”

“How do you know that?”

“You were so adamant on watching anything other than this one.”

“True. But I kind of get lost in whatever I watch.”

“We’ll see.” She said with a naughtily.

Half way through the movie he felt her gently holding his hands. It was the first time that she had touched him. She felt soft and gentle. Her delicate fingers slowly caressed his palms before finally moving on to his bare forearms.

“What are you trying to do”, he asked.

“Trying to tickle you”.

“Can’t you do that after the movie?”

She acted a thoughtful gesture before saying, “no. I’m bored.”

“But you wanted to see this one!”

“Now I don’t”.

“Fine,” he surrendered. “So what do we do?”

“You entertain me.”

“Here?”He looked puzzle.

“Right here!”

He moved his hand swiftly to her knees and swiftly moved his fingers in a circular fashion.

“What are you doing”, she asked.

“Making you laugh.”

“You can’t.”

“Let’s see.”

She restrained herself for a few seconds as he started moving his fingers more and more swiftly. The tickling sensation rushed up and down her spine. Her eyes started to water before finally she clutched his hand and burst out laughing. Half of the hall looked around to see who had found the hero’s failure in a college examination to be funny.

“Worth it”, he smiled. “Entertainment!”

She punched him lightly on his shoulder before finally resting her head on them. He wrapped his arm around her as her sweet perfume intoxicated him.

Day 25

“What’s your point”, he shouted as frustration bubbled within him.

“I’m not sure I can continue this”, she said in a said soft but firm manner.

“Can you at least tell me why”, he begged.

“I have already told you why”.

“But that’s all rubbish.”

“And that’s what my life is. Rubbish!”

He wasn’t sure whether to sympathize with her or cry at his own plight. In fact the absurdity of the scenario was making him want to laugh.

“So what now”, he asked.

“I really don’t know”.

He kept staring at her hoping to see some sign of remorse or panic at their apparently grim situation. But there seemed to be none. He wondered if she actually had turned void of all emotions or had veiled them completely from his expectant gaze.

“So, will you at least try to make things happen”, he pleaded.

“I have always tried to make things happen”.

“You mean our relationship is nothing different to you?”

“Every relationship is different.”

He got up realizing that further discussion on the matter would leave him emotionally dead. “Fine, let’s go.”

Once they were outside the coffee shop, she turned held his hand gently.

“Wait for me at the bus stop on Friday at six o’clock. If things turn out to be fine, I will be there. Else you can assume it be over. And I just want to tell you one more thing.”

“What?”

“No matter what happens, know that it is due to no fault of yours. My life is a mess and I’m really sorry for having made you a part of it. No matter what happens, I will always wish the best for you.”

He looked into her. Their darkness glowed in the neon street light. Something in him made him believe they held nothing but the truth.

Day 1:

“Is your birthday on the fifth, sixteenth or twenty-fourth of a month?”

She turned around and stared back at him from the adjacent seat at the bus stop, with a certain degree of curiosity. Dressed in a plain blue top and jeans, she looked to be in her mid twenties. The scorching heat had turned her fair complexion into blushing red as she elegantly wiped off a few drops of sweat which had gathered on her forehead.

“Sorry?”

“Is your birthday on the fifth, sixteenth or twenty-fourth of a month?” he repeated.

She paused for a moment. “How do you know that?”

“Does your name start with ‘A’?”

“Yes”, she said, “but how do you know that”.

“I like to study people”, I replied calmly.

“Have you been stalking me”, she quizzed.

He felt a touch offended. “I can assure you that I have better stuff to attend to”.

“So how come you know so much about me?”

“I just said, I like to observe people”.

“But my date of birth is not printed on my face.”

“Every detail of a person is on his or her face. You just have to have an eye to see it.”

She looked confused as well as curios as she watched him speak, glowing with confidence. A couple of buses sped by but no one seemed to care about stopping them. Life had just boarded a roller coaster.

Day 17

“Hello.”

“What took you so long to pick up the phone”, he questioned.

“I have slight headache.”

His anger turned into guilt. “Did you take any medicine?”

“I don’t need medicine.”

“Ok. Do you want to go out”, he asked.

“I just said that I have a headache!”

“Oh! Sorry.”

“It’s ok. I need to sleep.”

“Sure. You should rest.”

She had hung up even before he had finished his sentence leaving him in a completely puzzled.

Day 5

“So what’s your story”, she finally asked after taking a bite on the chocolate mousse.

“Me. I am just an average guy. As some wise guy once said ‘another resource consuming person on an over-populated planet.’”

“Pretentious or plain modest?”

The conversation was disrupted as the waiter brought his coffee.

“Why do I have to be different from the rest”, he protested.

“Well, you don’t have to be different. But you seem to be so.”

“Are you hitting on me”, he enquired mischievously.

“Excuse me! I don’t hit on anyone.”

“So what if you like someone?”

She contemplated on the question for a while and then spoke out in a matter of fact way. “I wait for him to like me back.”

“Interesting”, he smiled, “I guess you are attractive enough to afford the ego”.

“Enough”, she enquired raising a brow.

“Well, bit more than that to be honest”, he admitted, turning a bit red.

“Besides, you were the one who started the conversation at the bus stop”, she said, “so you were the one who was hitting on me.”

“I wasn’t hitting on you”, he protested. “I was studying people”.

“Dude, this is the twenty first century. When a guy tries to act the astrologer, he’s obviously hitting on the girl."

“Is it so”, he enquired turning a deeper shade of red.

“Totally”.

“Err… Sorry then!”

She smiled eventually. “You don’t actually have to be sorry”. Then blushing a bit herself, she added, “I’m glad that you did do it.”

Day 14

A meandering river flowed gently along the valley. They found themselves admiring its beauty from the table-top roof of the hill.

“Will you go out with me”, he asked abruptly. The manner of enquiry clearly conveyed his nervousness.

For a moment she looked at him with a perplexed expression on her face which eventually turned into grief.

“Did I say something wrong”, he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about this”.

“I’m really sorry.” Drops had sweat had appeared on his forehead.

“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

He gathered a bit of courage from her assurance. “What happened?”

“It’s something to do with me.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

She looked away. “Not now. Sometime later.”

Day 22

“What should I get for you madam”, enquired the waiter in his usual display of politeness.

“One Irish tea please”.

“Sure. What should I get for you sir?”

“Plain water”.

They waited for the waiter to leave. When he had disappeared into the kitchen, she began.

“Thanks for coming”.

“Do we need the formalities”, he questioned.

“I think we do”, she insisted.

“Great!”

After a nervous round of small-talk, he finally asked, “why won’t you go out with me?”

“I can’t go out with anyone”.

“But why?”

“Because I can’t like a person long enough.”

“What!”

“Ya. I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s like a disease.”

“You mean it keeps happening to you”, he asked.

“Every single time”, she sighed.

“How many would that be?”

“Seventeen. In last two years.”

A sickening feeling gripped him. He felt a bitter sensation in his mouth.

“You water sir”, smiled the waiter cordially. “And your Irish tea madam”.

She replied with a courteous “thank you”.

She didn’t seem to be slight bit affected by the grim situation. All of a sudden he felt very lonely.

“And exactly how long do you like a person”, he enquired almost mocking her.

“Twenty seven days.”

“That is ridiculous. You actually like people for a fixed number of days?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“The thing is”, she continued, “I know you might find it very difficult to believe what I just said. I don’t believe myself at times. I have tried my best every time to be a normal person. But it turns out to be same all the time.

A brief silence followed. He sipped a bit of water. The cold fluid trickled into him soothing him to a certain extent.

28th day

“Udupi, udupi, udupi”, screamed the conductor, poking his head out of the door.

For a couple of seconds he wondered where he was going till eventually, his trance broke.

“Kya boss? Udupi?”

He nodded hastily much to the frustration of the conductor and the bus took off once again.

It was quarter to six. His lack of patience had forced him to arrive a full hour early. They hadn’t talked with each other since the last meeting. Needless to say in the past three days he had hardly slept. His tired eyes had turned red. Patches of unkempt beard had appeared on his face. Life had almost come to a standstill.

As he waited for her at the bus stop millions of thoughts flew past his mind. He wondered how life had changed within a month. He tried recalling her and their initial days. The ccd visits, the movies, the hiking up the hill. He smiled gently and looked at his watch. It was almost six. There was very little time left to act. He closed his eyes and considered one last time and made up his mind.

When she reached the bus stop, the sun had started to set. The cool breeze brushed her silky black hair drilling into her, the magnitude of her achievement. Finally, after two years she had succeeded.

She sat on the same place where she had been sitting when they had first met. The adjacent seat was vacant. Someone had left a chit of paper on it. She picked it up and glanced through it. Written in hasty alphabets was a note addressed to her.

“Things have changed a lot since the time we first met. I thought long and hard and concluded that I don’t feel the same way for you anymore. Wishing you all the best for your future! Goodbye.”

Just Another Human Being

2010-04-16T07:31:00.000-07:00

People at times tend to wrap themselves up with heavenly qualities giving an angel-like impression of their selves. We admire them and wonder how can a person be so perfect? Such contemplation though is a complete wastage of time because the fact is there is good and bad in everyone. And no matter how much one tries to be something superior, at his/her core is just another human being.People at times tend to wrap themselves up with heavenly qualities giving an angel-like impression of their selves. We admire them and wonder how can a person be so perfect? Such contemplation though is a complete wastage of time because the fact is there is good and bad in everyone. And no matter how much one tries to be something superior, at his/her core is just another human being.

Love Birds

2010-04-11T06:48:00.000-07:00

“Your attention please. Train number 2620 Matsyagandha Express will arrive at 1640hrs.”

“4:40”, exclaimed a frustrated Sanjana. “That’s a forty minute delay”.

“Trains in the Konkan route generally stick to the schedule in the dry season”, I said before realizing such a comment wasn’t likely to elevate spirits in the given situation. So I flashed a cheerful smile and added “at least I can have forty more minutes of you.”

This definitely worked as she let out a “that’s so sweet” and gently clutched my hand.

“So when are you planning to return”, I questioned.

“I haven’t finalized that yet, but I’m planning to join some computer classes back home. So I may be late for the next semester by a week or so”.

“What!” I failed to hide my disappointment. “You could have done the course here itself. I can’t see any point in missing the first week of a new semester.”

“Dad thinks that the centre at Andheri is a much better one. So he wants me to do the course during the vacation.”

“And what do you think?”

“It hardly makes a difference. I will be at home for a month and a half anyway. So how does it matter if I stay back for one more week?”

How it mattered was something only I could understand. But before I could speak a word Sanjana’s cell phone rang. “It’s a call from Dad. I will be back in two minutes.”

I pulled my girl friend’s luggage towards one of the vacant benches and sat down to rest my tired legs. Life seemed to be at an interesting juncture. College was nearing an abrupt end with just the last semester remaining. Future looked very much secured with a decent job in hand. For a change I was in a steady relationship with a girl. In the previous two instances I had dated the exact type of girls who do not suit me and as a consequence life had become miserable.

But things were different with Sanjana. Whatever little wisdom I had secured in my little lifetime suggested that she was the ideal girl. She was caring, smart, with a pleasant personality and attractive features. I always enjoyed her company. Most importantly she was good to talk to. Some wise person had said that what one should see in a partner is how much he likes talking to her because after say twenty years looks will change but words will not.

To be very frank though, I wasn’t sure if we were in love. One major concern was that there was no machine which could throw some light on the matter. How was I to know what it really was?

“What are you thinking abou,t you dreamy boy?” Sanjana looked much happier after talking to her dad.

“Who’se coming to pick you up at Kurla?”

“Bro”, she beamed.

“Your brother is back from the US?”

“For a month.”

“Wow! That’s great.”

“I last saw him in my first year of college. It has been a pretty long time.”

“Students”, enquired an old man as he placed his luggage near Sanjana’s.

“Yes sir”, she replied back politely.

I wasn’t too pleased with the interruption. Being interrogated by elderly people is something that I experience often and such conversations generally do not interest me.

“What do you study”, he continued gesturing his wife to occupy the vacant space beside me on the bench.”

“Engineering”. Sanjana didn’t seem to react much to the interruption.

“We use to study till last year. Now we don’t”, I added in an apparent attempt to humor.

“I was thinking of coming to Mumbai for a week or two. Maybe we will be meet up sooner than you think”, I said to Sanjana not entirely sure how she would react to that. Our relation was about five months old and at times I felt there were hundreds of questions still to be answered. Personally, I never felt more committed to anyone before but then before college ended lot of issues had to be cleared. Attraction towards a person is a commonplace event. But a form of it which would last for a long period whether one speaks in terms of months or years is a rarity. In a nutshell I wasn’t sure whether to continue the relation after college. And confused as I was by my own feelings I dared not ask Sanjana what she about it.

“You are thinking of coming to Mumbai”, she smiled. “That’s very sweet. But there is no need to come all the way. We’ll be meeting in August anyway.”

“Ya right”, I admitted. “But a cousin of mine has recently been transferred to Mumbai. So I was thinking of paying him a visit.”

“Oh ok!”

The old man cleared his throat and started. “My son completed his engineering the year before last year. He is now working with that …. telephone company”.

“BSNL”, I volunteered hoping to terminate his speech.

“No no. The mobile company.”

“Nokia?”

“Yes that’s the one. They are paying him 6 lakhs already. People don’t talk less than lakhs these days. When I had started working my salary was two hundred.” He extended his index and ring fingers to emphasize on the two in case it did not register with us.

I got up to get a cup of tea leaving Sanjana with the luggage. Her composed demeanor puzzled me at times. I mean we would probably not see each other in the next couple of months. So the next fifteen minutes were all we had. And there was this stranger hell bent to ruin it completely. It was hard to stay cool. But she seemed to be perfectly normal with it.

When I returned the old man was narrating achievements of his daughter who was presently doing mbbs from some esteemed medical college.

“Your compartment will probably be at the rear end”, I announced staring at Sanjana. “Let’s shift the luggage.”

“Which compartment are you in?” The man didn’t seem to be in a mood to let go of us easily.

“S4”, replied Sanjana.

“That’ll be right here”. He looked delighted. “I had asked the chaiwala. My wife is travelling in the same compartment”.

“So you won’t be travelling”, I asked.

“No no. My wife is going to meet her relative. I don’t get time to travel. There is a business that needs to be looked after. So I said to my wife that just because I cannot go, it does not mean she has to stay back. Finally I convinced her to spend a week at her sister’s place.”

His wife who hadn’t spoken much so far joined the discussion. “It is hard to leave him behind these days. Doesn’t remember a single thing. I will have to call him up every day to remind him to take his food.”

Something about her seemed to soothe my irritation.

“Your attention please. Train number 2620 Matsyagandha Express is arriving on platform number one.”

The old man lifted his lady’s luggage and began arranging them. Matsyagandha had a two minute scheduled stoppage and thus people would often have rush about the platform at the last moment. Inspired by my man, I dragged Sanjana’s trolley to a convenient location.

“Hey, I can carry my luggage”.

“Can you now”, I quizzed her with in my usual sarcasmic tone.

She pinched me hard on the forearm reacting to which I let out a rather exaggerated scream drawing the attention of people nearby.

“Shit, why did you have to embarrass me?”

“You did not have an obligation to pinch me either”, I defended myself.

“You are so not a nice person”, she complained.

“Great! Now I will be contemplating on that throughout the summer.”

The old man butted in again. “Don’t you miss your homes staying at such a far away place”.

“Yes, we do”, replied Sanjana, though missing home was clearly not the critical concern here.

“In my days we used to go to colleges which were hardly an hour away from of home. But look at my daughter. She has to travel one full day to reach her college. She hardly manages a visit back home in an entire year.”

The train had started rolling into the platform. Sanjana pulled me aside. “Don’t call me up on the land-phone”.

“What! Why?”

“I don’t want my parents to think I have a boyfriend”.

“But you have a boyfriend”.

“I know”, she smiled. “But I don’t want them to find out.”

Noticing the puzzled expression on my face she gave me a gentle hug, much to the amusement of the old man who seemed to be interested in nothing else but us. “Must be missing his days”, I said to myself.

“So how do I talk to you”, I asked my parting girlfriend.

“Use google talk. I will try messaging you whenever I can”.

I wondered if texting through a summer could be considered as a reassuring thought. But at least we were lucky enough to have that option. Couple of decades back lovers had absolutely no electronic mode of communication.

The ‘S4’ compartment halted right in front of us. I helped Sanjana board the luggage and followed her moving towards her berth. She arranged the trolley under the seat and gave me a that’s-a-job-well-done look.

“Thanks for coming. See you then”.

I returned the goodbye and waited for the train’s departure as Sanjana took out a magazine from her handbag.

The guard waved his flag and the train started to roll. My girl seemed busy chaining her trolley. The old woman was standing in front of the door waving frantically at her man. A couple of drops of tear poured out of her steady eyes.

“Don’t you worry”, he assured her “I will take good care of myself”.

She smiled at him as he walked a few meters along with train before finally giving up. Gradually the train disappeared from sight as the metallic rails fell back into their hibernation.

As I walked out of the desolate platform a sense of relief gripped me.

The Wisp's Call

2010-04-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

“So where are you driving to” asked the pretty girl in her late teens to the driver who seemed to be a decently smart guy in his early twenties.

“Nowhere actually”, replied the boy.

“What do you mean nowhere? You seem to be putting in everything driving to some place and you say we aren’t going anywhere!”

“There is suppose to be a dead end ahead”, announced the boy in a very matter-of-fact way.

“And why would you want to drive onto a dead end”, quizzed the girl with a puzzled expression on her face.

“I’m not sure. I guess I really want to see what’s on the other side”.

“But you just said it’s a dead end. You can’t go to the other side”.

“Perhaps you are right, but I have a got a feeling there is some kind of a whole in the wall”.

“Big enough for the entire car to pass through it?”

“Possibly not, but there is a chance”.

“Why would you want to risk your life for something everyone knows is impossible”.

“To be frank, I don’t have much clue. Just that I am loving this drive”.

“You won’t mind if I step out of the car, do you?”

“Surely not! I wouldn’t want you to gamble your life”.

“Fine then, will see you at the other end if you get through”.

“What if I don’t? There is a ninety nine percent chance of failure”.

“Maybe you can drive back ninety nine times. I am sure someone will be at the other end whenever you reach.”

All's Well That Ends Well

2010-02-10T21:54:00.000-08:00

(Note: At this year’s Pendemonium I came up with such a lot of nonsense that the ‘cow of my story was literally climbing trees’(sorry non-Bongs). The topic was ‘Lock stock and two smoking barrels and I basically had absolutely no plot in mind when I started writing. But if all the idiocy does manage to tickle you a bit, I will feel it was worth writing.)

Platform number two was being suffocated by thousands of people. One couldn’t possible move a foot without crashing into someone else. It was Durga Puja time and Bengalis from all walks of life were willing to do anything they could to get back to Kolkata. Even the thirty plus years (and still stumbling along) of Communist reign had done nothing to disturb the annual visits of Lakshmi’s nocturnal friend let alone her divine mother.

Duranta express looked around worriedly. She was just about to embark upon her second voyage and she was supposed to carry some three hundred people more than her capacity. She was the pin-up girl of Indian railways. Her exteriors had been designed by one of the right-hand-men of the railway minister. Her interiors were not marvelous but sophisticated none the less.

“How am I going to carry so many people?” She turned to Yashwanthpur Exp who stood lazily in the adjacent platform.

Yashwanthpur was jealous of the attention Duranta was receiving but a sense of empathy did develop in him as he looked around at the sea of people trying to barge into Duranta.

“It’s not big a deal. Take it easy. Just don’t cross ninety. You’ll be fine.”

Now, I would want you to get familiar with ‘the good’, ‘the bad’ and ‘the ugly’ because along with ‘the lock’, ‘stock’ and the ‘two smoking barrels’, they play a very significant part in this ‘piece of literature’.

The Ugly: Ticket collector Govordhan Goswami.

No amount of money satisfied his greed. He allowed ticketless people to travel in reserved compartments and charged them hefty amounts for it. Needless to say he waited all year for days like these. In fact twice a year he would go to Kailghat to offer his prayers to Durga’s aggressive avatar by placing a red hibiscus beside her feet.

The Bad: Hiru Sardar

Hiru was a truck driver by profession. Presently he was busy stuffing a large black trolley underneath one of the side-lower berths. He had convinced Govordhan to let him board the luggage even though he wasn’t going to travel. The conviction had however come at a price of five thousand rupees.

The Good: A tiny little rat named Jerry

Jerry was more of a warehouse kind of a rat but had recently been introduced to the world of trains by one of his uncles. He did miss his friends but the place was awesome. Food wasn’t a problem. Especially the upper classes were served delightful meals. The sights were heavenly. The bridges and the tunnels mesmerized Jerry. But the best part of the train-society was the fact that it was a totally ‘cat-less’ one. You could roam around freely like Laloo Prasad Yadav did in the Bihar assembly ten years backs.

Hiru sardar looked around anxiously. His job seemed to have been done. No one had noticed him stuffing the trolley under the seat. It had been chained alright but the problem lay in the fact that his lock was missing. He wasn’t aware of the fact that his wife had stolen the lock for locking her (and his too) son’s school bag to guard his tiffin. Anyway, he would probably have to wait till the train departed to ensure things moved on as per his plan. So he got off the train and walked up to a stall for some tea.

Jerry was roaming around for lunch. He found this Marwari family who despised food served in trains. They were carrying three baskets full of delicacies which tasted like heaven. The ghee-coated namkeens were absolutely yummy. Jerry feasted on an entire packet of them. He burped aloud and felt slightly drowsy. Overeating never helps. Now he would have to sleep through the rest of the afternoon in order to regain his energy. But he remembered that his uncle had suggested a casual stroll after heavy meals in order to aid digestion. So he ambled around the entire length of the train.

It was then that he noticed the big black trolley. It was chained but the lock was missing. “What crazy people”, wondered Jerry as he closed in on the luggage. On straining his ears he heard a strange “tic toc” sound. “I wonder what kind of stock is in there”, Jerry said to himself. “Sounds fishy to me”.

He attacked the trolley with his immature canines. It was not an easy job by any stretch of imagination. The trolley was manufactured by a reputated baggage company who in fact were offering a guarantee of two years. The fact that this happened to be its second year made it an almost impossible task. It took Jerry some fifteen minutes to rip the trolley open. Streams of sweat were flowing all across his body.

As soon as the baggage was torn open the “TIC TOC” sound became distinctly audible to everyone nearby. The Marwari kid screamed out “BOMB BOMB! Someone catch the sardarji.”

A couple of college students rushed towards Hiru sardar. But before they could even touch him, he took out a brand new swiss-knife from his pocket. “Kahabardar! No one moves an inch.”

Retired cornel S S Sahani was all set for his afternoon nap when he heard the commotion. The ex-army man was on his to Kolkata for a special reason. In his early days in the Indian army he had been gifted two Victorian rifles by one of his superiors. “Keep this with you Sahani,” he had said. “Don’t try firing with them, they just cause a lot of smoke. Vintage items. After your days in the army are over donate then to some museum.”

Sahani was travelling to Kolkata to donate the barrels to Indian museum. He took out the rifles and darted towards Hiru pointing both the barrels at his chest. Hiru looked at them petrified. “Mercy mercy,” he screamed out.

“What’s in the trolley,” screamed Sahani.

“Bomb.”

“I can see that. Is it timed?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I am a member of Truck Driver’s Liberation Army(TDLA). We truck drivers feel we are looked down by the Indian Government. We cannot tolerate this injustice anymore. We demand a separate state.”

“When is the bomb supposed to blow up?”

“In thirty seconds.”

“RUN! RUN!” People started rushing about in every possible direction. Due to the presence of such a large crowd, no one seemed to be getting anywhere. Duranta herself panicked at the screams and to the utter disbelief of some thousand people stuck in the train, she started rolling.

A rather grim situation I do admit. You don’t think anyone survived, do you?

But they all did. It was because Jerry-the good, while opening the trolley had accidentally damaged a bright red wire thereby diffusing the bomb. Now, since you, me, the good, the bad, the ugly and the lock, the stock and the two smoking barrels and everyone else is safe we can let out a sigh of relief and say all’s well that ends well.

Chapter 3 - A chapter cut short

2010-01-31T22:46:00.000-08:00

“Oi bud-dy are you done?”

Jassi had been stuck in the shower queue for some twenty odd minutes. He had arrived before me and had critically positioned himself so as to be in control of three of the bathrooms. Unfortunately for him though the only bathroom that did open up was the one that I was guarding. His expression at that moment had reminded me of an old gentleman in a popular adhesive advertisement after his ignorant rival fisherman, thanks to a glue, had managed as many as four catches.

“Give me a minute”, I responded.

“Hell with your minute. I’ll start peeping if you don’t come out now.”

I shuddered at the prospect of my privacy being breach by sardar and hurried through the rest of the process.

Vishnu Kant, who was waiting for a chance to relieve himself, was evidently undergoing an excruciatingly painful ordeal (his lack of civic sense generally resulted in an even higher degree torture for the next person). Finally running out of patience he threw one mug-full of water into one of the cubicles. This was followed by a couple of distinctly pronounced abuses from within. Eventually, Sunny came out, with a copy of ‘The Hindu’ in hand, drenched completely in water.

Vishnu however, wasn’t the sole cause for people getting soaked.

It had been almost a month since our arrival in Manipal and for the past couple of weeks we had been greeted by shamelessly incessant rain. The place basically had a summer and a rainy season. The rains created a semi-winter kind of a situation with chilly winds patrolling the Western Ghats. Somehow due to the proximity to the equator, both the above mentioned weather conditions were grossly exaggerated. Summers were and humid and in the monsoon all hell just broke loose. It poured in all shapes and sizes right from dawn dusk with occasional ceasefires which were by no means to be trusted because reports of violation were plenty.

On one such occasion myself and Avik happened to be in the study hall, with plans to make some early preparations for the first sessional. We needed some notes to be Xeroxed so Avik had to go to a shop some seventy yards away. About forty of them were in the open. The first barrage of heavenly fluid graced the earth when he had completed five of the open yards and by the time he had completed all of them he literally appeared to have been hosed. As if to rub salt in the wound, it was sunshine by the time he returned to his seat. Needless to say our early sessional preparations were postponed indefinitely to a later time.

* * *

“Why don’t you file a nomination for the class representative’s election”, I asked Godbole.

“What’s the point?”

We were chatting in a mess table over tea which (apart from tea) consisted of dosas. I don’t know whether it was the quality of food which had deteriorated or the monotonous nature of the menu but somehow the dosa seemed burnt and tasteless. The tea was bit too sweet to be tea.

“It is better to have someone among us as CR. We will get all notes and notices on time.”

“You bongs can be real selfish at times.”

“Why do you need to generalize stuff every time?”

“Because it is a very general case.”

“How many Bengalis do you know other than me?”

“Few too many, I suppose. You, Sunny, Avik, Banerjee and that Heritage who seems more proud than the Qutab minar.”

“He’s an exception. Besides he’s not as arrogant as he seems to be.”

“Ya, he is much more than that.”

“YOU GUYS THOUGHT ABOUT THE CR ELECTION.” Sunny landed a friendly thump across my back, displacing half of my warm tea on to Godbole’s pant.

“Dude!”

“SORRY. JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW I FILED MY NOMINATION TODAY. YOU GUYS VOTING FOR ME RIGHT?” He looked at Godbole’s wet pajama for a moment and panicked a bit. “RIGHT?”

“Don’t worry. He’ll vote for you.” I assured him.

“CAN YOU HELP ME IN THE CAMPAIGN”, he asked me.

“Campaign! They don’t allow college politics in MIT. No one here has ever heard of people campaigning for CR elections”, remarked Godbole.

“YA, BUT WE CAN’T LET THAT GO ON FOREVER.”

“I think you joined the wrong college.”

“OBVIOUSLY! I WANTED TO STUDY ARCHITECTURE AT JADAVPUR BUT MY PARENTS WERE DAMN SURE THAT I WOULD GET INTO COLLEGE POLITICS AND SCREW UP MY CAREER. SO THEY BUNDLED ME AWAY TO MANIPAL.”

“And you’re still planning to screw your career”, exclaimed Godbole as he got up to leave after failing to withstand the heat in his tender regions any more.

“BY THE WAY NAGPUR GAVE HER PHONE NUMBER TO ME”, he said after Godbole had left.

“Are you falling for her?”

“NOT SURE YET. THERE IS THIS OTHER GIRL FROM BHOPAL WHO INTRODUCED HERSELF YESTERDAY. SO I AM BIT CONFUSED.”

“At least you have narrowed it down to Nagpur and Bhopal.”

“I GUESS YA. BUT THEN I WOULD IDEALLY WANT A BONG BEAUTY. THAT WAY IT WOULD BE EASY TO CONVINCE MY PARENTS.”

“You mean you are planning to marry whichever girl you go out with?”

“WHY NOT?”

“Nothing. Just that it is means a lot of hard work for the moment. I mean scrutinizing the prospective people and all.”

“AND THIS IS THE BEST TIME FOR IT. I MEAN ISN’T IT A SHAME RETURNING HOME AFTER FOUR YEARS WITHOUT A GIRL FRIEND?”

Shameful indeed, I nodded. “What about the degree though”, I asked. “Doesn’t this hamper your studies?”

“OBVIOUSLY NOT! FOR ME STUDIES ARE PRIORITY. I WOULD NEVER LET THIS HAMPER MY STUDIES.”

But he did.

“ANYWAY, I SHOULD BE MOVING NOW. NAGPUR GENERALLY VISITS LIBRARY FOR AN HOUR OR SO IN THE EVENING.”

“Good luck!”

“THANKS MATE. I REALLY NEED THAT.”

He sure did.

* * *

“Eight point five”, said Vasav pointing to a hot girl wearing a pink “my dad is an ATM” t-shirt.

We were walking back from college and engaged in another session of CGS (chic grading system). The criterion for grading weren’t exactly clear but first impressions seemed to be influencing most grades.

“Dude, look at the slim one.” Banerjee tugged at me. “She’s a nine point five sure.”

“You got a pathetic taste”, remarked Godbole. “I won’t be amazed if you start making out with cows and donkeys soon. That is, if they agree doing it with you.”

My imagination, which was rather powerful, took me to a lonely farmhouse where Banerjee was caressing the tail of fat cow which looked more annoyed than anything else at this display of affection. Then it jumped up on its front legs and with the rears landed one tight kick.

Animals do think like humans at times.

“I don’t see any one getting more than a nine here”, Aryan continued. “Except maybe that chic over there. She’s tall, silky brown hair, nice curves. Definitely nine point nine. Now she has caught us staring at her. She is looking straight at me, now at Ayan. Boy, Ayan you are about to receive your first stop-checking-me-out slap. And here we go.”

“Hi Amrita”, I greeted the nine point nine, with Godbole and the two others giving me a what-the-fuck look.

“Ayan”, she gave me a hug. She gave me a hug?

“What’s up Amrita? Meet my friends Vasav, Robert and this is Aryan Godbole. He plays the guitar.”

“I can sing a bit too”, added Godbole who seemed to have dented his calm and composed demeanor.

“That’s nice”, said Amrita. “I think I have seen you somewhere. Let me think. On stage at Interaction?”

Life is a stage. And each one of us is a damn good actor. Whether or not we are aware of this fact is immaterial. How often do we pretend to be what we are not and pretend to not know stuff which we know precisely? Consider the driver about to be fined by sergeant for not carrying his license. “Oh I am so sorry sir. My six year old must have removed it from my wallet.” (He would readily disgrace his six year old rather than admitting it had expired a month ago). The corrupt officer would then reply, “I am leaving you with two hundred for now. Don’t ever repeat it again (I have marked you now mate. Will milk you everyday till you get time to renew that license of yours! Looks like it’s going to be scotch for the weekend”).

“Ya I did play there. Did you like it?”

“I think it was good. Don’t exactly remember what you played”.

I could swear she remembered every note of what he played.

“I was there too. I played Bob Dylan”. Banerjee was eager to get into the conversation.

“I do remember you playing vividly”. Banerjee’s face lit up before it fell flat like a punctured tire at the follow up comment. “Missed my rotten eggs and tomatoes real bad that night.”

“You are rude”, said Aryan.

And whose cow was kicking around with poor guy moments earlier!

“I am sorry”, said Amrita, slightly taken aback. “Just kidding.”

“Can I have a word with you”, I asked her.

“Sure.”

I pulled her aside.

“What exactly are you trying to do Amrita?”

“Getting myself introduced to your room-mate,” she replied in a very matter of fact way.

“I can see that. I mean you could have waited for me to organize a chance meeting at some place.”

“Was this a problem?”

“It was ok actually.”

“Good. I was kind of nervous.”

“I could see that. By the way there is something I need to tell you.”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“Not now.”

“Fine. If you have a problem with now, call me up after dinner.”

“It would be better if we had a more primitive kind conversation”.

She raised a brow to act out her curiosity. “I have an assignment tonight. Meet me after dinner tomorrow. Eight thirty. In front of the swimming pool.”

“I will be there.”

She looked at Godbole who was discussing something political with Sunny. I too observed my roomy for a moment. He had sharp features, curly black hair, athletic built and a husky voice.

“Do you think he likes me”, questioned Amrita.

“He sure gave you a nine point nine.”

And then she turned bright red. And I was clearly not imagining things this time around.

* * *

Our laptops arrived a week before the first sessionals. Though we did not have internet connection yet, the corridors to some extent lost their lives. People preferred waging wars in Age of Empires and winning the English Premier League in Fifa, rather than loitering around uselessly. A few conformists like Sunny who had locked their laptops in almirahs to announce their repulsion to this highly anticipated inclusion. Tech-savy people like Vasav quickly established themselves in the student-society. The ‘common man’ would have to depend on them for softwares and also the know-how. There was so much to be done ranging from formatting (which initially was being done by the supplier) to getting permanent rights to use trial softwares using key gens, etc. Then of course there were threats flying around like, “if you do that I will hack into your lappy and bombard you with viruses.” Easier said than done. But you wouldn’t dare people who at least could spell a virus or two.

“You just wait and watch Mishra, I’m going to thrash you real bad this time.”

Godbole and I had managed to connect our systems for a game of Need for Speed. However, the ‘just-one-game’ concept was highly impractical. You could never leave after a single game. The looser would have hurt his ego real bad. So he would then challenge the winner to another round to which the latter, now oozing with confidence, would agree readily. And then the cycle would continue. Presently Godbole and I were in our seventeenth race with me having won as many as thirteen so far and looking really good for the fourteenth.

“Are you using cheats”, complained Godbole. Thrashing was not really a realistic prospect anymore.

“Yes, if it makes you feel any better.”

There was a loud noise from the road below that startled both of us. It sounded like some kind of a crash. The rain was pouring so heavily that it was hard to figure out any person clearly. We rushed downstairs and struggled through the rushing streams of water. About fifty feet from our hostel a bike and an auto rickshaw had crashed into each other. They had probably skidded on the slippery surface. The auto had rolled over. Its windscreen was smashed. The driver of the auto was helping himself onto his feet.

The bike was in pieces. Due to the impact the handle-bar had detached itself. The main body lay some ten feet away from the rider who was lying flat on the ground. He lifted his head for a moment and looked around as if expecting to see someone but couldn’t hold his head up for much long. Blood was spurting out from his wounds and was instantly being drained away by the rushing stream of water. He forced open his lips letting the rainwater quench his thirst. And then lay absolutely motionless.

An ambulance arrived within minutes carrying the rider away. But it was a lost battle. The tale of his life had had an untimely end.

Chapter 2

2010-01-25T05:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2: The girl

“Namaste everyone”, said a man in his fourties. He looked ragged due to a whitish layer of beard which had taken full advantage of that his unexpected summoning that didn’t really leave him with time to shave.

“You know why the two-fifty of you are standing in front of me now?”

“Sir, is it because someone broke a mirror last night”, said someone from the back.

“No. Because your parents got married. They have had enough of you and now they have sent you here and paid us to look after you.”

{Content removed to avoid plagiarism}

I looked around at Godbole who was busy reading “The Fountainhead” and then at the chit of paper which had been towed under my pillow. The letters printed in black said, “AMRITA”, the girl of my best friend.

Chapter 1: A home away from home

2010-01-18T08:51:00.000-08:00

I looked out of the window at the picturesque crossing. Five contrasting roads haphazardly gathered at the center which crowded with enthusiastic freshers who seemed pleased to have finally broken free from the shackles of childhood. Some of the parents who hadn’t left already accompanied their ‘young ones’ to the stationary shops to load them with all kinds of items which they hoped would be necessary to survive in this home away from home.

{Content removed to avoid plagiarism}

The 379 character message contained all but an invitation to a grand wedding between the certain male part (of European descent) glorified at the call-sessions and its corresponding female friend (African-American).

Photograph

2010-01-12T06:28:00.000-08:00

There was no mistaking that smile. The picture lay on the table embarrassed by the observer’s mesmerized gaze. The envelope which had sheltered it until few minutes ago had silently escaped and was presently resting on the tiled floor.

It had taken him a little more than two years to come up with the “eraser”. It was complicated and involved latest technology. It couldn’t really cure people of diseases. Nor could it help people to get into shape. What it could do is make people completely forget certain things from the past like certain people or places or let’s say incidents. The basic principle was simple. Find out group of grey cells in the brain storing particular information and destroy them.

It took him another three years to do the necessary experimentations and convince the medical society to allow him to perform operations on human brain.

There was no way he could have lead a normal life without the invention. She was all over his mind. Let alone at night, her thoughts tormented him even at day. He never found out what exactly ended the eight year long episode. But what he realized is unless he could get her out of his head he could never get back his normal life.

Now that he had literally got her out of his head he had decided to offer his service to people who needed it. The first twenty applications rested on the table. Each contained details of the person who wanted to be operated accompanied by a picture of the place or people they wanted to forget.

He found nothing interesting about the application. But it was the photograph which had completely taken him off his guard. His dark brown eyes inspected their frozen selves. The picture of the female applicant was attached too. But it was not possible for him to remember her. The machine had done an excellent job.

Fasting to liberation

2010-01-06T20:49:00.000-08:00

(All incidents described are NOT fictional. The views expressed here are personal and my intentions were not to hurt the sentiment of any individual or group of people)

I still remember my days at Kurseong. It was an unfortunate coincidence that the state government had found me the ideal scapegoat to be sent to this remote place, far away from Kolkata. Being a junior in the Government of West Bengal health service, I was not in any position to grumble about the fact that the person who had originally been allotted my post had managed a change in his transfer order simply by gifting a sack of Laxman phuli mangoes to the secretary of the department of health.

To understand the sensitivity of my post you have to understand that the sub-division of Kurseong is a part of the district of Darjeeling which in turn (and at least till date) is a part of the state of West Bengal. However the fickle nature of this inclusion is evident from the determination with which its people carried on revolution to free themselves from the clutches of oppression. And myself being a rather docile creation, I would refrain from commenting on how much truth there existed in this claim of suppression. Nor would I reveal having any false impressions that an opinion of mine would make the least bit of contribution to the development and integrity of my nation.

So here I was somewhere in the Himalayas trying to serve my state in its quest to serve people of a region who despised the service that I or in the big picture, my state had to offer. In fact contemplating on it now, I just realized I was lucky enough not to become the offering itself. But no matter how much hostility they put on display, they just couldn’t stay away from me because in reality there was only one hospital in the sub-division which till now is under the Government of West Bengal.

I was doing just about enough to keep myself alive amidst all the animosity till I was informed of the fact that my transfer order had finally succeeded in passing itself through all obstacles at the ministry (with a little help from my father-in-law who is close associate of the irrigation minister) and I could leave Kurseong in seven days. I almost cried out with joy and had I been a hero of a Hindi movie, would have had emotional music playing across my head, like how they are played when a mission is concluded and the director is indicating to the audience that the climax is over and they can finish up the remaining bits of pop-corn and coke because no matter how much they enjoy the air conditioning or the cushioned seats, they still have to get out and drive through those absolutely congested city roads so that another idiot would pay for a ticket, pop-corn and coke and then enjoy the air-conditioning or the cushioned seat or the movie (as per his priority).

Unfortunately in my case the music had to stop at an order summoning me to the office of the SDO to constantly monitor and medicate a group of people who as a part of the above mentioned revolution were trying to fast their way to liberation. In anguish and frustration I cursed a certain father whose vision was threatening to compel me for a ticket cancellation in the midst of such a serious recession. When no amount of pleading rescued me from the situation, I postponed my plans of packing and went into a state of submission.

The next morning I found myself in front of a dozen apparently fasting rebels, two dozen non-fasting and not-pretending-to-fast rebels, half a dozen journalists with their camera-crew and two policemen armed with lathis. Before I could get within a metre of one of the fasting people, I realized that the enthusiastic reporters had positioned themselves few centimetres from me.

“Sir, are you the new doctor?” enquired a person from a Bengali channel.

“Yes”, I said, “was there someone before me too?”

“Yes sir”, he replied, “but he didn’t do anything for the health of these people”.

“Are they concerned about their own health”, I retorted.

A lady from a national Hindi news channel spoke out. “And that ladies and gentleman is the new doctor who has arrived. Thus we can clearly see that the Government of West Bengal has no concern about the people of this region. Now it is up to you to decide whether Gorkhaland should be a made a separate state. If your answer is yes go to the right message box of your mobile and type YES and send it to 420420 and if it is no type NO and send it to 42042”.

“Hey, you missed a digit in no’s number”, I protested.

“Did I?” she enquired. “Don’t worry, they’ll still get through”. Then she smiled and for a millisecond shut one eye while keeping the other wide open. Disgusted I proceeded to check the patients.

It was the second day of the fast and effects were already beginning to tell on the strikers. Most of their blood pressures were either on the higher side or much lower than normal. There was a senior lady who was supposed to be a leader. I went up to her and asked.

“Mam, I think we should be sending some of them to the hospital”.

She looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t you try to dampen the spirits of our revolutionaries! They have gathered here for a noble cause. And that is to free the people of Gorkhaland from the clutches of your corrupt Government. If you ever again tell me to send them to hospital, I’ll file an FIR against you for molestation.”

Shocked, puzzled and petrified I obviously decided not to press the matter any further. “Let’s wait and watch”, I told myself.

On the third day I realized things were moving beyond control. The blood-pressure of one apparently-fit guy recorded 200/120. The trouble was if I complained I would be charged with molestation, my family would be ruined and I would be jailed for about year. In fact considering the sensitivity of the case, my Government would probably give me an extra year’s term just to please these people. On the other hand if I didn’t complain, this guy would die, I would still get bashed up and my medical certificate would be seized. I nodded to acknowledge to myself that either way I was about to be ruined. But then, I had to choose the former option because at least that would help one person survive.

An ingenious idea struck me. Instead going to the protesters I went up to the SDO and made him aware of the situation and then hid myself in the cabin that had been temporarily allotted to me. Within fifteen minutes an ambulance arrived followed by a police jeep. Before anyone realized, the apparently-fit guy was stretchered off. The leader began a speech as the camera-crew sprung to action. “Friends look at the way we are being treated. Our opinion is never respected. But we will not give up so easily. They have carried off a friend of yours but we will not let his sacrifice go to vain. We will continue our mission. We want Gorkhaland.”

The crowd erupted, “Gorkhaland Gorkhaland!”

I looked at the apparently-fit guy who was now being hoisted on to the ambulance. He could hardly move a finger minutes ago but somehow now was lifting his right hand and waving a goodbye to the crowd to which another set of slogans followed. “Gorkhaland Zindabad! Zindabad zindabad!”

Someone seemed to have mastered the art of brainwashing.

On the evening of day four a thin guy arrived as a replacement for the apparently-fit guy. He didn’t seem to be beyond thirty but the glasses of his spectacle were so thick that his eyes looked like almond. His blood-pressure was 90/60.

“Why would they bring someone like that?” I wondered.

I decided to let him do his stunt for a day and then sent him packing the next morning. But to my utter surprise, he was perfectly normal the next day. In fact, the condition of all the protesters seemed to have improved overnight. After scratching my head for a couple of minutes I realized what was going on. Needless to say mention that a bright smile dawned on my face for even if Jyoti Basu had been there in my place he couldn’t have helped but smile.

I was on my evening round on the eighth day. Everything was perfect. I was tired of reporting everyone normal. It was not hard to imagine how the health department would react on seeing my report claiming that a dozen men who had fasted for more than a week were perfectly normal. I wondered if they would consider me inept for the job and send me a reliever. A wrapper of dairy-milk had popped out from under one blanket. I looked up to see at the sleeping man who seemed to have feasted over it. To save him the embarrassment I had to shove the wrapper back under the blanket. The reporters had thinned out leaving only two of them behind. Even the policemen were nowhere to be seen. I made a quick assessment that the episode would be wrapped up within a couple of days.

The next morning when I woke up the place looked deserted. A couple of sweepers from the SDO’s office were busy sweeping away empty packets of all kind ranging from Glucose to chocolate biscuit. Without further delay I packed my tiny bag and headed back to the hospital. It took me a day to pack my luggage and by the next evening, after the episode of the emotional music had been played all over again, I bid goodbye to the land of white orchids, to live happily ever after.

A draft....

2010-01-05T10:52:00.000-08:00

This is a story about mediocre students. Not because all of them got the same mediocre grades but because they hadn’t spent the final years of school locked up in an isolated room for most part of the day with noses buried in books that out-weighed dumbbells. Not because they can never make it big in life but because they had not made to the 7IITs or the 7NITs (which, given the sympathy of politicians for exceptional students may in fact have doubled by the time you read this). This book talks about budding engineers who are just like the 3lakh graduating from the other 6000 colleges (which in fact might also have doubled by the time the earlier mentioned scenario arrives). It has no tales of dramatic adversity from which the protagonist emerges winning the heart of thousands; there are plenty of such stories already written and although I am hugely inspired by one of them, I am curious as to how often they overstep the realms of reality. For those of you who have already graduated, I hope this brings back some cherished memories and for those of you who are ready to roller-coast, this might just happen to you.

Glimpses from 2009

2010-01-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

It’s one of those times when I have both the time and desire to write but somehow the creative part of the brain is reluctant to return from a state of dormancy. Thus I decided to write something less creative in the hope that it stimulates the brain cell to creativity.

I don’t exactly remember how I started the year; probably spending useless hours at AOE or FIFA. There is absolutely no doubt that the seriousness of the year hadn’t yet set into me.

I returned to college to find a slightly easier timetable for mechies with a solid three half-days a week. It was perhaps expected that we would use these to prepare for our CATs GREs etc. But then whoever thought so is a moron with no sense of ground reality. It’s safe to say the best part of those hot afternoons was spent dreaming away, watching movies or on the internet.

The first significant event of the year was probably the rising of Slumdog Millionaire which eventually culminated into A.R.Rahman winning two Oscars. Boy that made us proud! I don’t exactly know why I had become so attached to the film. Perhaps because I had read about it when it was in the making and was in anticipation of its release ever since then. I admit it’s not like a Beautiful Mind or Titanic but then it’s a different type of movie and you don’t compare greats.

One of the highs of the year was our Goa tour. The four of us were Sourish, Sayoni, Abhijeet and myself. The scenic beauty was breathtaking. I will never forget the dawn at Palolem or the long scooty ride. To top it all was the paragliding episode. Looking out 100ft below at the open see with shore located at a distance is a feeling to savour.

The eminent pitfall of the year was asking a girl out for the sometime. Although a mixture of circumstances led me to it, I personally feel it was more of peer pressure than anything else. People treating their mate of the other kind as trophy, is acceptable as long as they keep those feelings to themself. The sense of achievement often makes them look down on happily single people but the point is what you consider as a trophy to beautify your drawing room cabinet may be nothing more than a showpiece to others.

It was one of those occasions when you think everyone is at fault. I was an obvious culprit having started all the trouble. Some howlers are rather embarrassing to mention. Regarding the girl in question all I would say is it’s true that I put her through all the trouble, but she had demonstrated no sense of sensitivity that human beings are supposed to possess. I respect her for standing up for what she didn’t want but then she could have been less indifferent.

The best thing of the sem was my bike. It had taken 6months of diplomacy and management to convince my parents. Very soon there were three of us friends who had bikes and it was fun. Then after riding for a couple of months I eventually got my license in a test in which Sourish Banerjee almost flunked. We also had this 220km Kudremukh trip. My decision to not carry a pillion turned out to be a very good one when I had bike-fall in a steep pankhabari-like turn. None the less the sight of Lakya dam, the rainbow on the Hanumangundi falls and the sheer was pleasure of riding along the snake like picturesque roads was amazing.

As a direct result of the asking-out incident I somehow got a focus on studies on other important matters that luckily lasted throughout the year. The bike was a great help too. My ISH visits were initiated to get glimpses of someone but seriousness of the place infected me and soon I was a regular there. Although it was a slightly easier sem I like to believe that it was my focus that got me my first eight point.

By the start of 7^th sem I had made up my mind to for CAT and frankly that’s mostly what I did. It was CAT in class, in the evenings and then there were the mock tests at IMS. I was not sure why but many of the boys were not exactly concentrating at that moment. The recession had made things very gloomy and though I was initially confident I too did succumb to depression at some point of time. I did manage a trip back home during the puja and that was a slight relief but the problem started when I returned. Somehow, my mocks were turning into a disaster without any particular reason.

The placements started at the pace of a hippo. First BCH, where I was made not-eligible some 12hours before the process. Then Delloitte, where I could not clear the written. It had its share of controversies with reliable people claiming less than half papers had actually been corrected. Then came Ashok Leyland. This is where I gained slight confidence of being comfortable at technical situations. The interview was moving pretty smoothly till I screwed it up at somewhere around the halfway stage.

Another event that had my confidence zooming sky high was our seminar. It so turned out that after 3weeks of postponing it had landed right on the very week when I was suppose to be back home. So initially I had to take up some pain to gate my date right. Somehow, the thing clicked. It wasn’t a technical marvel but it was more of creating heaps out of nothing and trust me I’m pretty good at that. I dressed pretty well and tried to keep it light. There were 3-4 moments when the class erupted with laughter followed by applause. The prof himself gave it a big thumbs-up. Prior to this I had managed to present a paper at our college fest. It might be insignificant in a practical sense but it was a goal of mine right from first year and thus it’s still an achievement.

The big event of the year and probably the so far biggest event of my life is the placement. I’m not going into much detail with that as I plan to write a separate article on that. For the moment lets say even I don’t know what clicked, so don’t ask me. Let’s hope things go plan and I do get the call as expected.

Mechanical vibrations! I can afford a smile now but it did scare the hell out of me. I tried every sessional to jump out of the danger zone but remained borderline right till the end sem and even then I had no surety of passing. Subjects are like girls, you can’t just get along with some of them no matter how much you try.

As I write this, I realize the year had actually gone pretty well and I don’t really know why I was of the opinion it was mostly depressing. There seem to have been quite a few highs and at the end of it all I can surely say All izz well! I’ll quote a paragraph I had written from a more depressing period.

Life's about struggling to survive the stubborn rain and the swine flu...doing 7pm classes...attending double seminar...copying useless assignments...slogging for sessionals...cursing the recession and the placement incharge who punctures bikes as extracurricular...tolerating the intolerable net speed...doubling the no of deetee visits...it's endless isn't it...and yet we'll live to tell the tale.

We sure did!!!

Shall We Dance?

2009-03-24T10:29:00.001-07:00

“Shall we dance?” said the boy with his right hand stretched out in anticipation. One or two people in the crowd who did notice this looked up at him in surprise.

He was wearing a suit that best resembled maroon. His chiseled face was extremely composed and his silky black hair was neatly parted at the middle. He was not the tallest person in the room but that was compensated for by his muscular built. His coal dark eyes were transfixed a person a few feet away from him.

She was in all respects beauty personified. Her smooth dark hair went down to her hips. Her fair skin glowed even in that dim light. The hazy-brown pair of eyes waited anxiously for the slightest of emotion that might betray his strangely expressionless face. She was expecting this question. In fact she was secretly hoping he would have the courage and the inclination to ask her for a dance. After all the time they spent together, it would be a pity if they did not have a farewell dance. She took a deep breath, walked up to him, stretched her right. He gently placed his left hand on her waist and the right on her shoulder. Then he waited a moment or too for her to settle into her position. One, two, three and off they went in perfect munism with the music.

* * *

The brightly lit hall was filled with exited young boys and girl. Their soft murmur was creating a buzz in the enclosed room. A fat lady stepped up in front and raised her voice.
“Based on your performance we have selected some of you to participate in the upcoming inter-college dance competition.”

The names were announced one by one. There were some seven or eight categories requiring solo, pair or group performances.
“Finally, for salsa we have Karan and Akshata”.

Akshata almost screamed out of delight. She had taken up the course after being persuaded by one of her friends. Never, had she realized that she could be dancing her way to a competition. And who was this Karan?

Out he came from amidst the crowd with a charming smile on his face. Going down on his knees he stretched out a hand and said in an extremely polite tone, “shall we dance?” And then they both burst out laughing.

* * *

The dance was progressing very slowly. There were surprisingly large number of orthodox turns. Not much she could do about it. On the dance floor he was the master and she just had to follow whatever he did. That is the what Salsa is.

His mind seemed to be preoccupied with something very complex. She looked into his eyes and tried to gaze his thoughts. His face was ever so perfectly emotionless. The stubborn eyes refused to reveal anything.

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have come to the final participants of the evening. A round of applause for Akshata and Karan!”
The few hundred youngsters had cheered the two of them on to the stage. Both of them were immensely popular in college”.

That evening the pair had mesmerized all with their performance. While she had danced with the grace of some heavenly apsara, he controlled the dance in his dignified manner. There was very little speculation for the judges in deciding the winner.

* * *

Some of the other couples moved aside forming a circle to give some space to the two. Their bodies were flowing in a lively rhythm. They did the ‘cross body lead’ quickly followed by an ‘open break’ that brought back some fond memories to her. In their initial stages as pair, while attempting the break he would invariably end up kicking her below the knee. She would pretend to get irritated just to see him blush with embarrassment.

* * *

Within a year of being paired up together, they had participated in seven competitions and had won five of them. Their chemistry had started to progress beyond on-stage to casual evening walks, friendly dinners and after-dinner practice.

One of the greatest virtues of life is simplicity. Often life makes things complex for people. So the best thing one can do is to not complicate his own life unnecessarily. Unfortunately for Karan had to learn it the harder way.

He had realized his mistake the very moment he had popped the question. It was not an outright “no.” She asked for some time but he never knew why because she never came close to being positive. The next few days were sheer torture. She tried avoiding him everywhere; stopped taking his calls, did not reply to his messages, stayed away from their common hangouts. Even dance practice was skipped on some pretext or the other. She stopped recognizing him on the road and would often move around some of the boys he disliked.

A week had passed and it gradually dawned on Karan that there would be no more dancing together let alone anything else. He never found out what exactly went wrong. Never had she hinted about going out with someone else and there was nothing evidently wrong about him.

It took him some time to get used to things. For a few days he preferred staying away from people including his close group of friends. The incident created a great deal of bitterness in his mind even though he was fully aware of the fact that it was he who had created the problem.

* * *

Her palms were starting to get slippery with sweat. She could feel him clutching them tightly as he set about doing the ‘confusion’. It was their favourite move. One or two in the crowd watched gladly as they went around in a circular motion. First…second…third…that is normally what they used to do. But he continued with the fourth…fifth…sixth.

She was starting to feel a bit dizzy. They ended at the eighth. Few drops of sweat had appeared on her forehead. She could feel his long and deep breath striking her face. She could sense pair of eyes closely following them as they entered the final phase of the dance.

The last move was the dip. It was always an appropriate conclusion to the performance and though it was rather difficult and risky, they loved doing it.

He stretched his right hand and sent her into a spin. She spun back to him and locked his right toe with her ankles. Then she let her body loose and surrendered herself to him completely. He wrapped his arms on her back to provide support but somehow slipped a few inches and then the bottom hand gave her lower body an upward jerk. She could feel her body turning upside down and crashing towards the floor. In a last attempt she tried grasping his hands but her sweaty palms failed her. Her head hit something really heard and she felt the world around her spinning violently as she looked around for him. She could see a blurred image of him walking away in his ever so dignified manner. Then, everything went blank.

Backbencher

2009-03-22T03:58:00.001-07:00

withdrawn

Found

2009-02-24T10:13:00.001-08:00

In my college life there was this one major financial crisis I had faced in third year. My debts were about three times my bank balance whose third digit was struggling to break free. After sending an SOS to my sponsors I was struggling to keep my money lenders at bay for as long as possible. Everyday was a nightmarish struggle.

It was at this critical juncture that some kind hearted, benevolent, charming person decided to steal my only umbrella from the canteen. I showered all sorts of praises on the almighty and my culprit for leaving me in this state of ‘euphoria’ and remained in a state of mourning for a couple of days. When the initial shock had subsided a new realization dawned on me. It was the peak of monsoon and without umbrella I was an absolute cripple.

With some speculation I arrived at the conclusion that with bit of planning I could perhaps get through the semester by begging and borrowing. So I moved from door to door in search of an extra umbrella. People heaved sympathy but no one proved to be of any help. “Oh I am so sorry, I gave my extra umbrella to this other person last week” or “Sorry dear, I myself lost my umbrella few days back”. Until one fine day I got this reply “umbrella! that is no big deal. I can get you one anytime.”

Rohit Kumar looked at me with his face glowing in self-pride. He was perhaps the most notorious among my acquaintances. He was as cunning as a fox and as sly as a mongoose and had earned the prestigious title of ‘proxy king’ after managing fifteen proxies in one single class.

“Do you have an extra umbrella”, I enquired curiously as I was not really sure if I could trust him.

“How does that matter? If you want an umbrella I can get you one any day.” Then after examining the expression on my face he added “in fact I can get you as many as you want”.

“Err… Actually it’s ok if you can get me one for now.” I replied, unsure of what I was getting into. Now when someone assures you of loads of umbrellas you often will find him struggling to get a single one. “When can you give it to me?”

“Come with me after the class gets over”.

“Alright! Thanks a lot”, I replied, attempting to flatter him in case he would prove to be of any good. “But where will we be going?”

“The most reliable place of all, ‘Lost and found’”!

* * *

The lost and found section of our college is located at the basement beside the chemical department. Previously one had to go down a set of stairs to a dungeon like place with creepy corridors. Plaster falling apart from damp walls and mosquito nets hanging at regular intervals. However, it had been recently renovated. The floors were tiled and the walls were freshly painted in yellow stealing the exclusive ambience of the place. The silent corridor sprang to life as the tiled floor led us to a blind corner. Printed in blue on a wooden board was “Lost and Found”.

Ever since I had heard of the plan, I was in a constant attempt to coax the planner out of it. Claiming something from the lost and found section that did not belong to me was no less than stealing. Besides there was a definite amount of risk involved. What if we got caught? The college would take disciplinary actions against us.

“Rohit, I don’t really think is a good idea. Hardly a month of monsoon left, I think I can manage without the umbrella.”

“Array Agni bhai, you get scared too easily. As long as I’m with you there is nothing to worry”.

I scratched my head contemplating that that in fact was the main cause of worry. However, I said to my self, “the prize is worth risking for”.

The lost and found section was directly under the security section. It’s in charge was retired army officer Col Reetinder Singh. When we arrived, he was deeply engrossed with the daily newspaper, trying to find our more about the recent stock market crash.

“Hard times”, he muttered, noticing our presence, hoping we would have some hopeful to say on the matter.

“Yes indeed, sir”, Rohit added, “but don’t worry this stock market is just like a sine curve. Every time there is a fall, there is bound to be a rise”.

I was trying to locate any possible similarities between a sine curve and stock market but luckily Col Singh was not too sure what a sine curve was but yet he somehow managed to find something optimistic about Rohit’s statement. “You think so?” he enquired.

“It’s not me sir who saying this, it is mathematics. Plain and simple mathematics”, exclaimed Rohit with that usual fake sense of confidence.

“I hope you are right young man. Anyway, what brings you here?”

“Actually, sir, I lost an umbrella yesterday, so I was wondering if we could find it here.”

“An umbrella”, remarked Col Singh suspiciously. At that point we were not really aware of a fact that umbrella hunters were frequent visitors to the lost and found section and almost ninety percent of the time they were proven to be frauds.

“Yes sir, a black umbrella, I lost it in the canteen”, said Rohit.

Col Singh scanned us from head to toe. He was a pro in his field. His one look normally created so much unrest among champion liars, that they fled back immediately without exchanging a single word. I could feel my knees shiver with panic. In fact I was too scared to move.

But Rohit Kumar, was as composed as one could be. After a detailed scan Col Singh concluded that this was one of the rare genuine boys visiting his office. So he finally spoke, in his typical army-officer like voice.

“Well, I will just show you what we have found,” pointing to the adjacent room. “Ask the darwan to unlock it”.

After a brief search, we failed to find the darwan so we had to go back to Col Singh, much to his irritation. “These kamchors”, he grumbled. “Must have gone for a bidi.”

So he grudgingly got up from his cozy chair and led us to the adjacent room. This room was much tinier than what I had imagined. It was not exactly well maintained. Five huge almirahs had somehow managed to squeeze themselves in.

“You said you lost your umbrella within the last week so it should be in this one”.

He inserted a key that did not offer any help. Then he tried the next with the same result. After that instead of trying the third he went back to the first and this time ‘CLICK’ it opened.

On the top shelf were some textbooks and notebooks. The second was the most precious one it had a couple of calculators, a watch and four cell phones. The next one had some more notebooks. It was the lowermost shelf that proudly displayed the single umbrella present. It was on the larger side with black cloth and a golden handle. I had no clue how Rohit Kumar had done it, but this exactly what he had a described earlier.

“I think you boys are lucky,” remarked Col Singh. “Not many people recover lost umbrellas in this college”.
”Let me just check once more to make sure I don’t make a mistake”, said Rohit much to my annoyance. I could guess that he was trying to win Col Singh’s complete trust but sometimes you just don’t need to overdo things.

“Ya, this is the one. I am totally sure about it”, he added pointing towards a scratch mark on the handle.

“Very well then, just sign on the register and take your umbrella.”

When that was done, we shook hands with the Colonel and were about to walk out into the corridor when we were graced the by the fortunate arrival of darwan Ramesh. He entered the office in an excellent mood humming an old Hindi classic. Then all of a sudden when he spotted the umbrella in Rohit’s hand he gave a sincerely puzzled expression.

“Is that my umbrella you are carrying?” he quizzed.

“What nonsense”, said the colonel. “This boy had lost it yesterday”, he added.

Ramesh snatched the umbrella from Rohit’s hand, inspected it closely, then pointing to label said, “here it is sir, ‘Paul and sons’, my brother in law brought this one from Bangalore last week”. Then after further examination he spoke out again, “see this scratch mark, my four year old son had been playing cricket with it”.

The Colonel shifted his gaze to Rohit Kumar who took the umbrella back in his hand. He then studied the scratch mark for almost a minute before finally acknowledging the fact that the scratch was indeed slightly different from the one he had in his umbrella. Then without further ado we walked out of the security section with blank expressions on our face. Col Singh looked on as the two dignified students disappeared into the corridor. Finally getting back to the newspaper he muttered, “I always knew there was something wrong about these guys.”

Room-mate

2009-02-24T06:11:00.001-08:00

Ayushman sat on his bed on a frustrating Sunday afternoon browsing the internet without anything that would qualify as purpose. Another semester was coming to an end and millions of thought flew across his head. Just another day, just another examination was all that separated him from two months of pure relaxation back home. It was that part of the semester when after toiling for months you just get sick of it and the only thought that keeps you hypnotized is that of going home. Perhaps the best part of staying away from home is that only then do you discover the delight or the pure bliss associated with ‘home-coming’.

An alarm clock sprung to life and broke his trance. It hadn’t really been successful in its mission because the curly haired boy still remained cuddled up in the only other bed present in the room. His proportionately rather large pillow found itself being briskly shifted from below his left ear to above the right one.

“Hey Anamol, wake up. You are to meet your girlfriend in fifteen minutes.”
Sensing a total disobeyance of his order Ayushman got up and tried removing the pillow that completely covered Anamol’s face.
“Please man, just five more minutes”.
The commander was not taking this anymore. This had become a routine. Within ten minutes he would start receiving calls from a certain female blaming him for not waking his roommate up in time. Sometimes he wondered how this had in the first place become his duty.
“Wake up you sleeping dumbo, she will be waiting for you”.
“Forget her, I am breaking up. Now let me sleep.”
“That is enough you lazy idiot”!
The giant pillows suddenly realized it had become air-borne and soon felt it was in fact being made to crash straight onto Anamol’s head. When that did happen, the latter grudgingly left his cozy bed, went to the attached bathroom and shut the door behind him with a bang.
“Now that is progress”, grumbled Ayushman, getting back to his laptop.

Luckily for everyone, Anamol was back before the dreaded calls started arriving. As usual, at this moment he realized the magnitude of the trouble he would have to face if he did not gallop a full speed. So he set about on his daily chore of messing up his part of the room. The dresses, the bottle of deodorant, the socks and other very important objects found themselves being thrown across from one place to another.

“What should I wear? What should I wear”, shouted Anamol.
This is one question Ayushman had been asked almost everyday over the past one year.
“Wear the black shirt and the dark blue jeans”, replied Ayushman without even glancing at the wardrobe. Some answers were always satisfactory.

When the image in the recently put up mirror had finally managed to appease Anamol, he uttered a hasty “goodbye”, slammed the door behind him and disappeared before the room-mate could reply. However, much to the annoyance of the latter as he was about to latch the door there was another loud bang. The departed had obviously left something behind.

Ayushman, sank back to his bed and focused on his laptop to show his indifference to whatever might have forced Anamol to return.

A frantic search for something followed in the wardrobe before it was moved on to the study table and a bed that would define the term ‘messy’. As the hunt neared the other half of the room Ayushman finally failing to hide his irritation enquired in a sarcastically polite manner “What is it with you this time?”

Anamol was about to say something. Then he hesitated for a moment before finally shutting the door and visually inspecting Ayushman’s table with a look of desperation.
“Have you seen anyone fiddle with my wardrobe recently?”
“No. Is there something missing?”
“Actually yes”, he replied without divulging further.
“Not again”, thought Ayushman. He knew Anamol had a habit of loosing things temporarily. They would almost inevitably be found under a displaced pillow, an assignment notebook or somewhere in the pile of clothes on his bed which rivaled the Bermuda triangle in its ability to terminate the official existence of objects.
“Check the room properly. It must be somewhere on your bed. What is it by the way?”
“It is a packet of swiss-chocolates I had bought to gift my girlfriend”.
“Why don’t you get another one for now? We will look for it later.”
“You have no idea how much one packet costs! It’s half our monthly mess-fee. Besides, I had to order it a month in advance.”

After some half hours thorough search it dawned on the room-mates that the packet had indeed been stolen. Anamol sat on his chair with a poignant expression on his face as Ayushman investigated piles of misplaced objects under Anamol’s study-table.
“It was just a matter of time before something like this happened”, said Ayushman. “I always tell you to keep the wardrobe locked”.
“But we normally don’t leave the room open. Who could possibly do something like this? And why would anyone steal a packet of chocolates?”
“It’s only the sweeper, the toilet cleaner and a handful of friends who come to our room often. I don’t’ think anyone other than a student would be bothered about your swiss chocolates”, said Ayushman. Then he added, “We leave our cell-phones, wrist watches and other valuables but no one steals them. I would expect those things to be given bit more priority if a sweeper was to steal something”.
There was definite logic in what Ayusman was saying. But it hardly mattered to Anamol. The fact was that there was no remote chance that he would find the gift within a day and that is in case the thief had not delighted himself at it already. So his idea of a parting gift at the end of the semester had been ruined. Let alone the money that had been wasted.

* * *

The last examination had just got over. Anamol hurriedly stuffed his belongings in a rucksack. Ayushman had gone out for lunch. He was staying back a couple of days for some project work and therefore was in no hurry with his packing. His black trolley bag lay in a dusty corner. He however had arranged his clothes in neat piles and left them on his table. Unlike his room-mate he was not someone who left things for the very last moment.

After packing was over, Anamol decided to shave. It would not be a wise idea to return to Delhi with a fancy beard. It would only arm his parents on their mission of tormenting him on his diminishing grades. While he gently moved the razor across his face, strange thoughts kept filling his head. He had not yet got over the chocolate incident.

The careless razor left a sharp cut in his chin that started bleeding instantly. Anamol hurriedly sprayed after-shave but the bottle was totally dry. He looked at the rack where Ayushman kept his shaving kit. The toothbrush and the toothpaste lay in their places but the shaving kit had been shifted elsewhere. Perhaps Ayushman had already packed it in his luggage.

Blood had started dripping from the cut. Starting to panic Anamol pulled the black trolley and rested it on the floor with a thud. The shaving kit was right on top. He swiftly took out the after-shave and sprayed it all over the cut. Within seconds he realized he had sprayed too much as he felt an intense burning sensation in his chin. When the bleeding stopped and the burning subsided he looked at the mirror to confirm thing were alright. Then he replaced the lotion in the kit and put it back in the trolley.

As he was about to close the lid, a brown plastic box peeped out from under a file kept at the bottom of the trolley. He recognized it instantly. It had something printed on the rear in Swiss. The golden ribbons were intact and cover had not been touched.

* * *

Anamol sat on his bed holding the packet with both ends. His eyes were transfixed at something outside the window as his right hand gently caressed the brown cover. He seemed to be lost in deep thought. Then he casually got up replaced the chocolates in the trolley and placed the file carefully on it. As he returned the trolley to the corner of the room he felt his thoughts settle down gradually. A mystery had been solved and his queries had been answered. He could not but help hoping that he had never set his hand on the trolley.

Operation Infecto Leaderous

2009-02-15T05:46:00.001-08:00

“PARA 21892893 to PARA 87392819 can you hear me.”

“PARA 87392819 speaking. Yes sir I can hear you”.

“Good…you take your division to the left and search for targets there. I have sent others to check the right and the front.”

“Aye aye sir. Taking my division to the left. Over and out.”

“PARA 78678715 to PARA 87392819. Reporting from first floor toilet sir. Probable target found.”

“Alright give me details of target”

“Species homo sapien. Bathing in cold water. Apparently low immunity. Ideal condition for attack.”

“Alright PARA 78678715 wait at the site and keep an eye on the target. I will arrive with reinforcement in 19 seconds.”

There was a pause for sometime that apparently was very small for human beings but for the millions of paramoxyviruses it appeared to be an eternity. PARA 78678715 was in the process of letting out a yawn when an army of viruses started pouring in to the tiny bathroom.

“Hold back people till I tell you charge”, shouted PARA 87392819. “Ten… Nine…. Eight…. Seven…. Six…. Five….Four…Three….Two….One….ATTACK!!!”

* * *

“Your tea” said a gentle voice putting a cup of hot Makaibari tea on the bedside table. Dinesh Garai, opened half an eye, then half the other one, surveyed the situation, decided it was dark enough for him to lie down for at least five more minutes, then quickly shut whatever eye he had opened and pretended to be fast asleep.

Disgusted, Rekha left the room grumbling “don’t expect me to warm it again for the third time.”

“Ok I give up”, resigned Dinesh removing the blanket at attempting to get up from his cozy bed. It was then that he realized that something was wrong. His entire body was aching. He had an itching sensation behind his ears. He could feel himself burn even in that chilling morning. Panicking a bit he called out “Rekha just check my temperature, I feel feverish”.

Family physician Dr Deb nodded his head and pretended his best to sympathize with the patient. “I am afraid Mr Garai, I think you have measles. I cannot confirm it till I get the reports of the blood test, but the symptoms are quite prominent. Your eyes are red; there are spots on your face”.

“Measles” squeaked Dinesh, “but doctor the state elections start in three days I hardly have time to breath at the moment”.

“I am afraid that is out the question now. You will need at least a week of complete rest.” Then he handed over the prescription to Rekha and began explaining her the dosage.

Soon the episode was on every news channel.

“The personal assistance of Manish Pradhan, the leader of the opposition has been infected with measles, dealing a serious blow to Pradhan’s dream of winning the forthcoming state elections”.

The opposition was shattered. Dinesh was Pradhan’s right hand. He had a role in every major decision taken by the party. Dinesh’s house was transformed into a party office. The ground floor was occupied by politicians, party workers and journalists. Mr Pradhan himself was supposed to be visiting when some wise person said “Sir, I know you are the leader of the party, but I still think you can get measles. You cannot trust viruses”.

“Hmm” remarked Pradhan “that is something I had not considered.” So he ended up passing his get well soon wishes over the phone and then began wrecking his brain to find a solution to help him in this crisis.

So the headlines changed:

“The leader of the opposition has accused the state government of infecting their worker with measles. They have called for a 24 hour strike tomorrow and have asked for postponing the state elections.”

The chief minister Sunita Devi was in a very good mood till then. The day’s events were starting to assure her that she was moving towards another election win. Now after the counter attack by the opposition she was totally on the back-foot. She did not know whether to laugh or to fume over the accusation made against her but she knew pretty well that she would have to move quickly and cautiously if she were to remain in the post for another term.

Headlines:

“The state government has sent a team of doctors to Mr Garai’s house but the opposition is refusing to let them treat him as they claim that they have no more trust left in the ruling party”.

Dr Deb was initially doing his best. He was receiving constant calls from the government that if Garai did not heal fast his career as doctor would come to an abrupt end. But then he was taken aside by a member of the opposition and warned that if Garai recovered before the elections, he might well have to pack his bags and move to some other place. Given the dilemma that he was in, the sixty year old doctor could not be blamed for hurriedly packing his belongings and taking a taxi to some unknown destination. Latest he was spotted was at Howrah station trying to catch a train to his village in Midnapore.

Luckily for the state government no one noticed him missing because with one more weapon up in their armory the opposition would be almost invincible.

Late at night when the opposition was totally off guard a team of medicos from the premier medical college stormed into Dinesh Garai’s house. By morning the situation was totally under the ruling part’s control and though the treating physicians did not notice any change in Dinesh Garai’s health, the headlines were, “Dinesh Garai recovering quickly, says chief minister.”

* * *

“PARA 87392819 to PARA 21892893”.

“Go ahead 87392819.”

“Sir my people are beginning to suffer from boredom. I suggest we travel to a different location”.

“Alright 87392819. Order all units to vacate the present location. We will soon start looking for a fresh target.”

There was a pause for 14 seconds, and then millions of paramoxyviruses began flowing out of Dinesh Garai’s body and out of the window into the infected air.

* * *

Headlines:

“Dinesh Garai recovers miraculously leaving no doubts about the efficiency of our health department.”

Sunita devi got up to a fresh morning. She was relieved. Peace had been restored. She attempted to get up. But her entire body was aching. Her eyes were red. There were spots on her face and something was itching behind her ears.

Renewable Sources of Energy in India – The Ground Reality

2009-02-04T23:57:00.000-08:00

According to the Census of 2001, and data published by the Ministry of Urban Development, India had a population of 1027 million, as on 1st March, 2001. About 285 million people (27.8% of the total population) live in urban areas. While the population in rural areas grew by 17.9% during the decade between 1991 and 2001, that in urban areas grew by as much as 31.2%, indicating a migration from rural to urban areas (besides normal population growth).
There are a total of 4378 urban agglomerations and towns in the country (the census data shows 5161 towns). Of these, 423 towns and cities have a population or more than 1 lakh. There are 35 urban agglomerations and cities with a population of over 1 million. The total number of urban households in the country is 53.7 million.
In an effort to mitigate the energy problems of cities and to provide alternative energy solutions for industrial and commercial establishments; it had been decided to focus on the development and application of renewable energy. Eight years later we look at how much of the objective has been achieved by discussing the state of some of the Government’s premier projects related to various sources of renewable forms of energy.

Hydro Electric Power
In March 1948, the Damodar Valley Corporation Act (Act No. XIV of 1948) was passed by the Central Legislature, requiring the three governments – the Central Government and the State Governments of West Bengal and Bihar (now Jharkhand) to participate jointly for the purpose of building the Damodar Valley Corporation.
The Corporation came into existence on 7th July, 1948 as the first multipurpose river valley project of independent India with the avowed mission to tame the turbulent Damodar and control damages caused by recurring and devastating floods in the valley. Following the model of the Tennessee Valley Corporation, DVC incorporated other activities such as Generation, transmission and distribution of power to broaden the scope of its primary mission. Hydro-electric power stations were Tilayia, Maithon and Panchet. The one at Maithon was Asia's first underground hydro-electric power station.

However the combined installed capacity of these three plants is a meager 144MW. In the last five years the output has been limited to less than 120MW per year. As a sharp contrast the DVC operated thermal power stations at Bokaro, Chandrapura, Durgapur and Mejia, have a total de-rated capacity of 2745 MW.

The dams face a severe problem of siltation. Apart from that the operating hours of the hydel stations is limited to about couple of hours a day due to problem of water management. The biggest tragedy of the DVC however lies in the fact that the dams have not only failed to prevent the annual flood of the river Damodar but have resulted in more disastrous floods.

Solar Energy

Sunderbans, the largest delta in the world is a region cut-off from the mainland and hence faces severe crises of power. Thus it became the ideal location for experimenting with alternative sources of energy. In 1996 the West Bengal Renewable Energy Association had set up 21 photovoltaic in four blocks claiming to the needs of 5000 families. However, in reality the plants have a combined production capacity of about 1MW. Power of about 50-60Watts is distributed to surrounding villages for six hours a day.

The Government of West Bengal also encourages residents to purchase solar cells at a subsidized rate. But that too is not a practical option since the reduced cost of solar cells is Rs120 per Watt and thus beyond the reach of most of the locals who constitute of fishermen and farmers.

Presently the solar cells work on light rays of a very limited range wavelength. If they could be made work on light of a wider range of wavelengths, then solar energy could become a cheaper and much more realistic option.

Biomass Energy

Plants had been setup in Sunderbans to convert woody biomass into electricity to exploit the abundance of wood in the region. However this form of energy turned out to be too expensive. Approximately 30 liters of diesel fuel is spent per hectare for cutting and collecting wood for transport. The energy input:output ratio for the system is calculated to be 1:6 compared to 1kcal of electricity produced per 3kcal of thermal energy.

Thus presently these plants are engaged in producing electricity by burning coal.

Tidal Energy

WEST Bengal’s 100-mega watt (MW) tidal power project, the first of its kind in the country, received clearance from the Union ministry of environment and forests in the last week of April, 2008. The West Bengal Renewable Energy Development Agency (WBREDA) will implement this Rs.40-crore pilot project in the Sunderbans area.

This eco-friendly project aims to electrify several Sunderbans villages, benefiting about 200,000 people in the area. Work on the project is slated to start later this year and will take three years to complete.

Though it is difficult to predict the exact ecological impacts of tidal power plants it is recorded that they have a negative impact on the local aquatic and shoreline ecosystems. The change in the water level and possible flooding could affect the local vegetation and birds and fish that feed on it.

The building of the plants also blocks major transport routes causing concern not only too locals but also to large vessels reaching Kolkata port.

Wind Power

As of July 2008 the installed capacity of wind power in India was 8,696 MW, mainly spread across Tamil Nadu (3873 MW), Maharashtra (1756 MW), Karnataka (1011 MW), Rajasthan (539 MW), Gujarat (1253 MW), Andhra Pradesh (123 MW), Madhya Pradesh (126 MW), Kerala (12.5 MW), West Bengal (2 MW), other states (1.6 MW). It is estimated that 6,000 MW of additional wind power capacity will be installed in India by 2012.

Despite the fact wind power accounts for 6% of India's total installed power capacity, it generates only 1.6% of the country's power.

Even after the developments of past few decades India still has a long way to go as far as renewable energy is concerned. This field still requires a huge amount of research and development. But even then evidence on existing and probable future efficiencies and costs indicates that it will not be possible to derive sufficient electricity or liquid fuels to sustain the present high per capita rates of consumption from renewable sources. There must be a transition to reliance on renewables, but a sustainable future cannot be achieved without significant reduction in current material "living standards" and in gross economic activity.

References
 http://mnes.nic.in/ (Website of Government of India’s Ministry of New and Renewable Energy)
 http://www.dvcindia.org/ (Website of the Damodar Valley Corporation)
 http://www.downtoearth.org.in
 http://healthandenergy.com

Mr Ghosh’s Apartment

2009-02-04T23:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life plays funny games with people. Not exactly amusing for the victim but none the less it provides sufficient fodder for humour to the society in general. For example when a certain five feet ten inches tall gentleman with a very muscular built, got bitten by a rat in his own living room, instead of standing by him and helping him get through those tough times, people merely laughed their heads off at the comical aspect of this grim situation. I am sure the man in question cursed the almighty for not sending something of significant and respectful size to cause the bite.

Not everyone does recover from such demoralizing situation. I remember Mr Ghosh, a clerk at the Writer’s building, who lived in a single storied house in our colony. He was not the type who would command huge respect but none the less was never seen getting on the wrong side of people. During my days in primary school he was a regular visitor to our house. I was quite popular with Mr Ghosh and he would often bring me sweets.
On occasions when I had nothing to do I would watch him and my father sitting on the sofa discussing the deteriorating political situation of the country over a cup of a tea.

What fascinated me most about Mr Ghosh was his three bedroom apartment. It was full of unutilized luxury items that were rarely seen in our middle class households. There was a huge plasma television that was used some fifteen minutes a day to watch the national news. There was home theatre with five speakers whose sound quality was never discovered by anyone other then those lucky few who were present at the time it was assembled by the mechanic. There was a 350cc bullet which in my schooldays failed to earn the privilege of leaving its parking space beside the antique telephone in the dining room. There was a false ceiling embedded with colourful bulbs who were allowed to display beautiful emissive qualities during festivities. There was an apple computer, an absolute rarity in those days, which got its high point when in standard four I attempted my paint brush skills learnt at school.

Once dad had asked him, “Mr Ghosh, why do you spend so lavishly?”
“You see mister”, he had replied. “Whatever I have, I want to give it as dowry on my daughter’s wedding”.
“Dowry”, I had exclaimed. “Isn’t that illegal”?
To this he had burst out laughing. “I assure you child. When you marry I will ensure you get a bunglow and a car along with your bride”.

Mr Ghosh’s daughter Deepa was slightly older than me. She was one of the prettiest girls in the area. We were playmates in kinder-garden. In fact in high school I had started having some funny feelings about her which are of no significant importance in the given context and hence left un-discussed. To say her father was possessive about her would be an understatement. As a teenager Deepa was not suppose to have any interaction with any of the boys in our colony. She was transferred to a strictly girl’s school. Venturing out of house except in school hours was made out of bounds. Soon I too was dragged into her keep-away-from list. I was taken aback by Mr Ghosh’s attitude and never really had the inclination to have a proper conversation with him since then.

Our lives moved on in two parallel universes. I completed my schooling and joined an engineering college in a different part of the country. After completing my undergraduate degree I joined a private firm. But it was not the best of times for an Engineer and I was struggling real hard hoping the good times would arrive soon. So for the first couple of years I never had a chance to get back home. When I finally returned, the Ghosh family had already left. Later I was informed about this bizarre incident that had caused their departure.

It turned out that Mr Ghosh had finally found a match for her daughter; some IITian who was to soon move to the US. The date of the wedding was fixed and the invitations cards were ready to be dispatched. At this auspicious moment Deepa decided to announce that she was not ready for this marriage. On further grilling she revealed she was already married lady. The gentleman in question was our colony’s cable tv guy. Given the magnitude of the surprise, eye-witnesses claimed Mr Ghosh had reacted in a very composed manner. “It is alright”, he had responed, “what has happened cannot be changed. You can take the next half hour to pack your bag and get out from my house”.

Deepa went to the slum behind our colony where her husband lived. Mr Ghosh found it hard to face the reality. He realized it would be difficult for him to spend the rest of his life as the father whose daughter ran away with a slum-dweller. So he left the city and went to live in an ashram in Benaras with his wife. I am not quite sure what happened to the apartment. Perhaps Mr Ghosh had later forgiven her daughter to some extent. He might have wished his grand-children were brought up in a civilized society. But as far as I know, it still awaits its residents.

Killer

2008-07-14T20:22:00.000-07:00

7 PM
Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring!
“Hello. This is Lalbazar police control room.”
“Sir. A murder reported at Moore Avenue, Tollygunj. Please come here fast”.
“Can you specify the place?”
“27 Moore Avenue. It’s in one of those under-construction buildings. The murder seems very similar to the recent serial-killings.”
“Stay there, we are one our way.”

A siren rang across the Kolkata police headquarters at Lalbazar and within no time a police team was galloping south at full speed.
A Tata sumo was leading with a decently large police van at the rear. ACP Sanjay Guha and SP Rajeev Mahato were traveling in the sumo. A group of fourteen constables occupied the van. This was no ordinary convoy. It was a special task force set up to solve a recent serial-killing case.

“That’s five of them he has got now. I admire the man’s caliber”, said Sanjay to break the silence. “That is if this one is true”.
“You amaze me Mr. Guha. You are probably the first ACP I know who admires a murderer.”
“That’s a misconception Rajeev. It’s always good to respect your opposition. I am not telling you to worship him.” Then after a pause he added. “So what do you think about the modus operandi.”
“It is a bit strange that someone would use such an old-fashioned way to murder people. He attacks the victim from behind and then slits the throat with a sharp knife. Its not really fashionable, but he is making it work and that too damn well.”
“That’s exactly why I think this person is so dangerous. You see, his methods are so elementary. Today you have so many sophisticated weapons but very few users no the liabilities. For example if you use a gun, there is almost a cent percent chance that you’ll get caught. That is if people do want to catch you.”

The ACP’s last line was to mock the present system of governance in the city. Like most departments, corruption had laid a strong foundation for itself in the Kolkata police. The roots of it went so deep that even the most corrupt officer had no clue as to how big the racket was. It didn’t matter how big a crime you committed, if you had money to spare, you would be spared too.

“There is a lot of surgical skill required to puncture the trachea with one swift cut. If he doesn’t make it the first time, the victim will struggle.”
“Absolutely right SP, in fact the precision of cut in every single case forced me to believe that it’s the same person that has killed all of them”.

* * *

7.30 PM
Commissioner of Police Mr Ajit Ray paced up and down his cabin. Something, something must be similar to all these victims. It seemed crystal clear that all four murders were committed by the same killer but to confirm this theory he would have to find something common about the victims.
He picked up a file lying on the table and ran through the list of the victims. Bijan Saha, businessman. Jyotirmoy Das, executive in a corporate firm. Tapan Maiti, lawyer. Lokesh Basak, manager of a Punjabi hotel at Park Street. All of them were decently rich. They did not have any criminal record. No motive had been found for any of the murders.

* * *

7.45 PM
There was a pause as the convoy tried to manouvere itself through a traffic jam at the Hazra crossing. Then Sanjay spoke up again.
“So, any plans for X-Mas?”
“Yes, hoping to visit the hills this time. Had promised my kids a trip in the puja season but then with so much work, there was no time for travel. Let’s hope we catch this guy soon or all of us will be working full-time even on New Years days.”
“Ya, you do deserve a rest. You have been working really hard. I’m sure a promotion is just months away.”
“Actually I’m thinking about leaving this job. Tired of chasing criminals. I’m so busy with work these days that family life is in turmoil. Brother-in-law is starting a business in north-Bengal next year. He wants me to join him as a partner.”
“That’s a pity Rajeev, this department needs a few sincere people like you.”
“What about you, sir? Don’t you feel stressed out with so much work?”
“I’m an old horse. I just have a few more years left for retirement. Will try to make the most out of it before calling it a day. Careful Sohail, don’t knock down someone and compound our troubles. Respect for the police is already brimming among the people, don’t make it overflow.”
Sohail turned around from the driving wheel. “Don’t worry sahib, I have never had an accident in my life. Just that these people won’t care to clear the road, even if it’s a police jeep arriving.”

* * *

7.50 PM
Ajit Ray jumped on his feet and darted across to the operator’s room. “Jayanta, who called to inform this murder.”
“Sir, the person didn’t identify himself.”
“Did you ask him his identity”.
“No sir.”
“How did he know that this was a part of the serial-killing. We haven’t yet discussed the idea of serial killing with the media.”
“He said it was like the earlier murders.”
“Was it a landline number?”
“No sir, it was a mobile.”
“Ok. Contact the company. Get me details of the SIM card and the tower from where the call was made. Hurry!”

* * *

8 PM
The convoy steered into a bye-lane to enter Moore avenue. They passed the lush green football field of the Tollygunj Agragami club and soon found itself outside a massive iron-door labeled, Kothari Nirman.
“Are you sure it’s the right place Sohail, I find it hard to imagine that there is no crowd at the gate.”
“I think this is it. There isn’t any number mentioned here but the last one said 26”, said Rajeev.
As the officers walked towards the gate, the police van screeched to a halt behind them and the constables got down one by one. Some of them who had actually noticed the lack of a crowd looked a bit puzzled.
“Sir,” said Rajeev, “I think there is some problem down here. We have got to be careful.”
“Alright everyone,” screamed the ACP, “get into the building, be on your guard.”

The inside, was totally deserted too. The security personnel present informed that construction work stopped at 6 PM.
“Did you see anyone enter the compound?”
“No sir”, responded a completely baffled guard.
“We are coming from Lalbazar. I am ACP Sanjay Guha. We’ll be searching the compound.”
Then he divided the constables into three groups and sent them to various floors.
“Sir let’s go and take a look at the roof. We need to get a clear picture of the compound”, said Rajeev.
“I think you are, we can get some fresh air while these men take a look around. I’m starting to believe this one’s fake.”

But even as he said, somewhere in the compound a cold swiss-knife found itself waiting anxiously for its turn to get out from the darkness of a pocket. Its specially sharpened blade was anticipating some action.

* * *

8.15 PM
“Sir, I have got the reports.”
“Good. Who’s the owner?”
“Some gentleman who has a shop in Burrabazar. He a had filed an FIR about it being missing. So the company has suspended the number about half an hour ago.”
“When did it go missing?”
“Today afternoon.”
“Alright. Which tower was used for the call?”
“Lalbazar.”
“What!”
“Sir, the company records show it was made from the Lalbazar tower”.
“Goodness me!”

* * *

8.10 PM
“You were right sir, it’s a lovely evening”.
The ACP nodded. “I just hope we get over with this quickly. Need to take a nap.”
“You wait here Rajeev. I need to talk to the CM. Need to convey him this one is farce. He’ll be relieved.”

As the ACP disappeared into the terrace-entrance, a pair of hands guided themselves into surgical gloves. Then one of them took out the swiss-knife and clutched it tightly. The swiss-knife was quietly moving towards an unassuming prey. Finally with one swift motion it sliced the wind-pipe into two. The man caught his neck in terror. For a few seconds he struggled to breath. And then he struggled no more.

* * *

8.16 PM
“Police commissioner Ajit Ray speaking.”
“Sir, this is ACP Sanjay. Sir, we have suffered a casualty. SP Rajeev Mahato has been murdered”
“Damn it. Stay at the spot. I’m on my way.”

“The serial-killer looked at the corpse. “Poor young man. Who will look after the family? And the business partnership with brother-in-law?
A subtle smile flashed across his face before it was engulfed by a maddening rage. “Bloody schedule caste! You think you can get away through life so easy. I will free the country from the whole lot of you. Then there will be no more quotas anywhere. People with merit won’t be deprived anymore. The nation will be purified.”

The ACP waited patiently for the commissioner to arrive. Another smile crossed his face. It was a job well done for the night and he really needed to take a nap.

My Friend Jyoti

2008-07-11T06:51:00.000-07:00

(Dedicated to Bannerji uncle)

If ever a novel was written about my school life, there is no doubt that Jyoti Prakash Pal would be a major character. Not that we studied together for a long time. In fact we were in the same class only for a couple of years. Probably he is one of those characters who just brushes past you in the journey of life but somehow manages to leave a permanent impression in your mind.

When we shifted to Baranagar, everyone was tired of the process of getting me admitted in another reputed school. Moreover looking at the rate at which dad was getting transferred there wasn’t much of a chance that we would be residing there for too long. So one fine morning I found myself suited and booted, walking through the dilapidated front gate of the nearby municipality school. There was no massive building or luxurious cars outside the front gate. A single storied building stretched itself into a decently large playground. The numbers of teachers was not enough for so many students and as a result the classrooms were slightly cramped.

When I walked into my classroom every eye turned to me as if to say “what is this guy doing here?” All the benches were seemingly full and no one looked too keen to share a bench with me. I had half mind to turn around go back home and ask dad to admit me in some other school. It was at that point did I notice this boy in the third bench. As he stood up gesturing me to sit down beside him, I noticed that he was tall and well built. Some of the others were rather surprised at this noble act as later I found out being the only seat adjacent to the window, it was the most precious place in the class and this boy never ever let anyone else sit there.
“Hi. What’s your name?” he asked, to get a conversation started.
And that was the first time I met Jyoti Prakash Pal.

* * *

Soon we were turning into good friends. Some of the other students persisted that I should stay away from Jyoti. To support their view, they told me about the infamous biryani-lunch incident.
This grave display of mistrust had taken place the year before my admission. It had so happened that one of the students Arup was telling his bosom friend Joy about a pathetic lunch his sister had cooked the day before. Joy nodded in agreement and added that ever since the British left India, the standard of home-cooked food had seriously deteriorated (Joy’s uncle was a retired police officer who somehow managed to link every unfortunate happening to the end of British rule).
“Poor you”, said Jyoti, who had an ear open to conversation while playing book-cricket with Dinesh. “In my house biryani is served at every lunch”.
“Really” said the others in monism.
“Every single day my friends”, he added with a voice full of pride.
“I don’t trust you?” said Arup.
“Very well, I welcome you to lunch at my place on next Sunday”

Arup had later told me later that throughout the rest of that week the only thought that invaded his mind, was that of the biryani. He thought about it in class, in the playground and even while listening to grandpa’s tales of the days of freedom struggle. On the night before, he had in fact dreamt about entering an abandoned cave in an isolated location that was filled with buckets of hyderabadi-biryani. To make the maximum out of this opportunity, the three friends skipped their breakfast to make room for the heavenly food to be accommodated.

The clock had just struck twelve when they knocked on Jyoti’s front door.
After a few minutes of silence they knocked again.
No reply.
Now there was a growing concern amongst the three. They knocked again. This time louder than earlier.
Finally a visibly irritated Mr. Pal appeared on the door. Before anyone realized what was happening, the shopkeeper in the tiny ration shop about a couple of hundred yards away heard the screams of Mr. Pal.
“You scoundrels! You loafers! Your company has turned my son into a spoilt brat. Don’t know where that idiot has vanished since the morning. If I ever see you anywhere near this compound, I’ll smother your skin to tissue paper.”

And that my friend, was the biryani-lunch incident.

* * *

Jyoti and myself had become good friends till he left school an year later. His father had expired after a massive heart-attack and his mother sent him to work as an assistant at his cousin’s medical store. Then for a very long time we did not hear about each other. Dinesh had informed me that Jyoti had taken to heavy drinking. His wife was a very nice lady but at one point she could not tolerate his drinking habits. So she had gone back to her father’s residence taking their son along with her.

One day dad’s attention drifted to an advertisement in the bottom section of the second page of the leading Bengali newspaper.
To avoid accusations of exaggerating, I will quote what it read.
“Do you want to know your future? Do you want to know when the stars are in your favor so that you can take that extra risk? If yes, then come to the greatest Indian astrologer of all time, the person who uses advanced computerized techniques to look into the future, Sri Gurudev Sri … etc etc …. SRI JYOTI”. It was accompanied by a tiny photograph of a person with gigantic beard clinging on to his chin and a thick-framed spectacle covering his eyes.

I read the advertisement over and over again. Even after some three decades, Jyoti’s face was clearly recognizable. I noted the address (it was of some place in Shyambazar) in a parchment and kept it in my wallet. A few days later while returning from my college (I was professor of Physics at Presidancy college) I got down at Shyambazar and after a brief search managed to locate his chamber.

It was one of those ultra-old houses of north Calcutta. About a dozen grown up men and women waited outside the chamber. I walked up to the female receptionist and politely enquired, “Is this Jyoti Prakash Pal’s chamber?”
She gave me a disgusted look and turned back to the newspaper in her hand.
“Excuse me, is this Sri Jyoti’s chamber?” I repeated.
“Yes sir”, she replied this time. “Please write down your name and wait for your turn”.
When I told her he was my classmate, she went in and after sometime informed me that I was expected inside.

“Welcome, welcome, professor, to my humble place” (he referring to my nickname in school and not my profession).
It was a four by ten feet cabin divided at the centre into two parts by a wooden table. On the table with its rear towards the client sat untidily a personal computer. On the geometrical centre of the ceiling, was a dusty dc fan hanging on to an iron rod for its dear life and for the life of the people below. After brief speculation I concluded that the only way for Jyoti to exit the room was by jumping across the table.

“So how come you joined this business?” I enquired.
“Well, after I ran away from my house I went to south India. Plenty of temples they have got down there. Pretending to be a sadhu I managed my fooding and lodging with ease. But I wasn’t getting the satisfaction. Then I met this ex-ceo of a company. He was an mba and a millionaire before he got disgusted with life and devoted his life to spirituality. We discussed the importance of management in our daily lives. Then I conceived this idea of using management skills to predict people’s future”.
“And thus you turned into this great fraud,” I mocked.
“This isn’t cheating my friend. I use my wisdom to help people. Not all people have the foresight. They need some expert guidance about their career and personal lives”.
“How do you use the computer in astrology?” I was curious about this for quite some time.
“I use it to study international journals on astrology”, he said in a tone that could impress anyone who was acquainted with him before his this re-incarnation.
“How did you managed to impress so many people?” I asked.
“Well, basically there are two kinds of people who come to me. Some rich marwaris who want to find out when to invest money in their business. I have some idea of business so I give them my opinion. If they loose money they forget about it but if they profit, they come back to me again and again. These people are quite generous with money. But the problem I have is extracting money from the Bengalis. Mostly they come to find out whether their daughter will get married soon. That is not difficult. They bring the girl along. If she is beautiful you can say she will soon get married otherwise you say she will get married in a couple of years. Even if you say six months, there is a fifty percent probability that you will be right. Isn’t that easy?”

I nodded my head in agreement. “What about your wife and children? How are they?”
At the mention of my last question, Jyoti turned away from me. When he finally turned back I wasn’t sure whether the scarlet tinge in his eye was due to fluorescent lamp or due some hidden emotion that just lurched out from somewhere deep within him.
“I don’t know”, he said. “But I have made some calculations. According to them she should be returning to me within two years”.

“Sir should I sent the patient back”, intervened the secretary.
“No, no!” I exclaimed getting up to leave. “It’s late already.”
“Fine! Do come to visit again. Bring bhabiji and your kids next time.”
“That I will,” I said. “When they decide to get married or invest in business”.

* * *

That was the last time I had met Jyoti. Not all of his calculations had gone right. His wife never returned. In fact he didn’t wait for two years. He died of a liver failure.
I have a lot of fond memories Jyoti from our school days. In fact I vividly remember that first day when I sat beside him in the prestigious third bench beside the window. There was one unanswered question that brings a smile to my face every time I think about, did he really have biryani at lunch everyday?

My Gentleman

2008-06-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

It was just another normal day in the city to those who had spent the afternoon in their artificially cooled bedrooms. But people who had to sweat it out in their offices found it mercilessly hot and comprehensively exhausting. The temperature seemed to rise with every passing year. They said it was due to global warming. No matter what it was, unless the trend changed, everyone seemed to be facing a dire consequence.

Considering my relation with the goddess of luck, I wasn’t surprised to find myself categorized in the latter group of people. I had been working as a trainee in one of the Government undertakings. Honesty would persuade me to reveal that there was barely any work for me to do. As it was in those days, most of the factories in the state were on the verge of lock-out. Every one seemed to be in a state of depression. So understandably no one had much time to show me around. So every day I would travel a couple of hours to my ‘workplace’ only to exhaust myself with idleness and then return home in a state of irritation of whose foundation I was still in a state of confusion.

I had completed the first part of the journey and was stranded at a busy crossing waiting for my next bus. After a gloomy half an hour’s wait when a bus finally did arrive, it was obvious for me to overlook the fact that it did not have the potential for further human inclusion considering there was hardly any space left to stand. The deceitfully confident conductor managed to squeeze me through the crowd. I found a place to rest my right foot and a courteous middle-aged man lend me his right leg as rest for my left.

As the bus unenthusiastically progressed along the city-road I closed my eyes to visualize myself lazing on my drawing room sofa with a glass of soft-drink, watching something insincerely humorous on the television. When I had replenished my energy, I looked around to see what the others around me were doing. When you are a budding writer, you tend to look every person with a great degree of curiosity to see if there was some interestingly uncommon about him.

The person who had earlier offered me his right limb was clutching on to his bag that looked to possess a laptop. He was wearing a light yellow shirt and a brown tie. It was too crowded for me to see what pants he was wearing. His dyed black hair was smartly parted to one side and he was wearing one of those golden-frame spectacles. He seemed to be an executive in some private firm. Not the kind of person you expect in a local bus. However, he wasn’t complaining about having to undergo this torturous bus ride. There was something in him that made me believe he was a perfect gentleman.

“Ticket…ticket…”, said the conductor rattling his coins to catch my attention. I let go of the overhead handlebar and after a pathetic display of balancing managed to withdraw my wallet from the rear pocket of my trouser.
“Give me a four”, I said handing him a five rupees coin.
He shook coin bag, took out a one rupee coin and thrusted it in my hand along with the ticket. The scorching heat seemed to have considerably damaged his temper.

“Ticket…ticket”, he said, this time to my half asleep gentleman who by now seemed be fast asleep.
“Ticket…ticket”, he repeated with a harsher tone.
“Already done”, said the gentleman opening his eyes for a few seconds before shutting them up once again.
The conductor stared at the man with a baffled expression on his face.
“No sir, you certainly haven’t. The last time I approached you, you asked me to come back to you later.”
The gentleman turned around slightly confused. “Well, I certainly did buy my ticket”, he remarked. Then he started describing the exact moment when he had purchased the ticket.
But the conductor was argued stubbornly.
“Why would I want to cheat you of your little earning?” said my man, desperate to prove his point.
This seemed to anger the conductor further. “Why don’t you show me the ticket”, he challenged.
Now in my city asking someone to show the ticket was considered to be a very grotesque thing to do. You were expected to trust a person when he said something. Tickets were just a formality. So when the conductor asked him to show the ticket, I felt it was time for me to interfere. These rascals were always on lookout for harmless people they could cheat. Being a young statesman, I felt it was my duty to do prevent this gentleman from being harassed in broad daylight.
“How dare you question that man’s integrity. Don’t you see he is a gentleman”, I interrupted.
“Don’t you interfere now”, he said to me rudely.
“Just because no one is complaining, you think you can get away doing anything”.
“Shut up you idiot”, he remarked infuriated, “I have seen loads ok kids like you and I warn you not to get on my wrong side.”
Then he gave me a sudden push on the shoulder take took me off guard. So I stumbled on to the person standing in front of me. In those days I was more on the side of what you would call muscular. I had been a regular gym-goer in college and prided myself for being the strongest among my friends in arm-wrestling.
So I got back to my feet and landed a heavy blow square on his jaws. He started bleeding immediately and it took him some time to stand up straight. What followed a scuffle that seemed to thoroughly entertain the other passengers who made no attempt to intervene.

When I finally got down at my stoppage, I was a sight to behold. My forehead was bleeding. The shirt-pocket was dangling in mid-air. There was bruise just below my left eye. Yet I had a sense of satisfaction. I had managed to teach the villain a lesson. He had definitely got off worse in out battle and it would be days before he could get back to being a conductor. I doubted if he would ever try to cheat someone again. “I had done my bit for the society” I contemplated.

Some one gave me a pat a pat on my back. I was positively surprised to see that the man with the yellow shirt had also got off at the place.
“Thank you young man”, he said shaking my hand with eyes brimming with gratitude. “You saved my prestige today.”
“I suppose it was my duty to do so”, I said making an attempt to be modest.
“Actually”, said he, “I lost my wallet in the office. So I had to take a bus. Anyway I will make sure I am more careful of my money next time”.
“Alright”, I said controlling my desire to smash his spectacle with one heavy blow, “but why didn’t you ask someone to lend you some money. You could have asked me”.
“I had thought about it”, he said, “but you see I am an executive and his doesn’t suit me to beg people for money to return home. It’s not a decent thing to do.”

So saying he walked away and into one of the by-lanes. I was beginning to get his point. And the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. He was indeed a perfect gentleman.

The Answer

2008-06-30T09:49:00.000-07:00

Amby Saxena was suddenly facing a tricky question. Amby would have laughed himself into splits if someone had asked him this question a year earlier. For it hardly classified as a question. But to his great surprise there he was at this moment asking himself this question.

* * *

Amby was the definition of the term ‘backbencher’. He was from an almost rich family. He ended his school life as a mediocre student. Never did he get very high grades. Neither did he ever make an attempt to get them. He was satisfied as long as he passed every examination. He had always dreamt of being a musician. Perhaps nothing mattered to him more than music. Everyone in college was aware about his exceptional talent as a guitarist. Every now and then he would be performing on stage much to the delight of the young audience. When this curly haired boy walked on to the stage with the guitar in his hand, he really looked a rock star. All Amby needed was a better guitar. And then would be the best guitarist around. So he consulted a professional who told him of this amazing guitar manufactured by ‘Fender’.

It’s a cliché that all good things in life come at a cost. Amby’s life was no different. This entity that promised to give Amby a promising new identity was worth half a lakh.

Amby realized that he could never save up that much from his pocket money. So one fine day he decided to make this special request to his father. Amby’s father Dr. N. Saxena was a successful lawyer who hardly had any interest in any form of music. So persuading him was difficult. Finally they had an agreement that Amby’s wish would be granted if he topped his department in the next end-semester examination.

Dr Saxena was a wise man. He knew that his son would probably never make it to the top. He knew fairly well that at the end of the semester his son would extort the money no matter whatever his results were . But he hoped this would make him a bit more serious about studies.

When the semester began Amby was a totally different person. He was attending every lecture with paramount interest. In order to be a topper it is not sufficient to just pay attention in class. So every day after lectures would get, he would go to the library and spend some quiet hours in the company of books.

Due to increased involvement with studies that he had to cut down on public relations. He hardly had an hour to spend with his friends. In fact there was no more time for music. His guitar was locked up in his cupboard. It was difficult but he had to do it, just for the semester.

Midway through the semester, Amby’s hard work was beginning to pay off. The results of the mid-semester test showed significant improvement. He realized that he just had to put in a bit more effort.

One more month passed by and Amby was beginning to realize that his attitude towards studies was changing. He realized that most subjects had something very interesting to say. Lectures were beginning to fascinate him. There was a growing hunger in him; a hunger to learn.

The semester examinations were not ideal by any stretch of imagination. He had made quite a few blunders. But overall he was happy with his efforts. It was question whether he had done enough.

When the results were declared it showed that he had in fact not done enough. He was in the top ten but that was all. However Dr Saxena was impressed with his effort and gifted the Fender gladly.

* * *

Amby was returning from his aunt’s residence in the suburbs. The mid semester break was on. The previous day Amby’s dad had purchased the much anticipated guitar. He could hardly wait to see it. The add to it his father had also purchased books for his new semester and now that Amby was enjoying studies, he was also excited at the prospect glancing through the new books.

The taxi came to a halt outside a two-storeyed bungalow. A young passenger got out from the rear seat and paid the bill hurriedly. Then opened the front gate, walked across the lawn at a brisk pace and banged on the front door.

An irritated Mrs Saxena opened the door. “Where is the guitar, shouted Amby?” clearly failing to hide his excitement.
“Upstairs”, she remarked, “but hey! Open your shoes first”.
But Amby was already gone. He was galloping a couple of stairs with each jump when suddenly a question dawned on him. What was the first thing he wanted to do? Strike a few chords with his new guitar or browse through his new books. It was a simple question. But deep down someone within him knew that a lot depended on the answer.

His boots were thudding up the concrete steps but his fragmented thoughts seem to scatter in all directions. He waited fraction of a second and then made a dash for one of the doors. He had just got his answer.

Innocent

2008-02-27T12:27:00.000-08:00

I walked into the classroom earlier than usual. The room was still awaiting the arrival of the thirty odd grade 3 students. My heart was throbbing with excitement. It was a big day for me. After all it was my Happy Birthday. Today I could do anything I wanted. No teacher would scold me for not bringing my books or for not doing my homework. There was a party in the evening. Dad has booked an entire amusement park. I just cannot wait for it.

Soon the students started pouring in one by one. They still don’t know it’s my birthday. The class teacher walks in. She opens the thick attendance register and starts calling out names. Souma, Sumanto, Abhijeet, Santu, Bharat,…… Let’s hope I get some cooler gifts this time. Last time it was only boring books, pens, etc. Why can’t people gift some games or toy cars! Hope mom hasn’t invited Himangshu. How dare he gift me a dictionary! What am I suppose to do with a dictionary! Play book cricket with it? Agni…..Agni….Agni…..

I was dragged into the present all of a sudden by an annoyed Geeta madam. “What happened kid, don’t you want your attendance?”
The entire class was staring at me. My sense of embarrassment was swiftly replaced by anger. How dare she scold me today! Someone seemed to have placed a heavy load on my tongue. Stammering a bit I finally manage to say “mam it’s my birthday”.

Madam’s irritation drained out quickly. She beckoned me near her and kissed me on my forehead. The entire class stood up to sing. This was always a special occasion. One I always looked forward to. The candies were then distributed. And the class resumed.

During the lunch break people came to wish me individually. A few of them had actually brought me gifts. Mithun gave me a pencil box designed like a mobile. Tanmoy gifted me a book. Some of the others were slightly embarrassed at not having brought anything so got me whatever they could. Ambar, the fattest boy of our class bought me a Milkybar. Santu gave me the Tinkle that he had been reading in the English class. Everyone seemed to be happy.

Then I noticed this guy Gopi Nath Manna. He had failed in the same class last year and as a result had been an unwanted addition to the group. He was always dressed shabbily in clothes that were probably being worn for decades. Worse, they were all double his size. Never in the past month or so had I seen him smile. I often wondered if he was mentally stable.

He stood at the corner of the room and gazed at the group of us enjoying ourselves. I could interpret the look in his eyes. He was probably feeling guilty for not having brought me anything. It was not that he could not be excused. His father was just a bus conductor. But then I had been tutoring him recently in Maths and Science. So he ought to have brought something for me. Anyway, what difference could one gift make.

Ring Ring Ring! The bell rang ordering the students to return to their respective classes. As I was getting back to my bench someone tapped me on the back. It was Manna. He dragged me to his place. Opening the side pocket of his bag he took a strip of plastic. Taking out the content he held it out to me. “Happy Birthday Agni”.

That night after the party I was opening the gifts one by one. Clothes, toys, books and many others. Some seemed really expensive. It was difficult to choose the best. But then I remembered something I had completely forgotten about.

I opened my school bag to take out the pencil box. And there it was. It was just a refill. Not in my wildest imagination did I think that someone could actually gift a ‘refill’. I had been confused and bewildered while accepting it. But now as I held it in my hand I felt elated for some strange reason. Was it because it made me feel special? It certainly proved how much I was liked.

As I placed the refill in my toy box, my mind was dragged back to a very special moment. A shabby little boy shook my hand and looked at me curiously. I lost control of my emotions a hugged him tight. While returning to my seat I glanced at the boy who had a wide smile across his face. A sense of euphoria swept across me. I had got my best birthday gift.

Phat Phat and I missed...

2008-02-20T23:25:00.000-08:00

(My Pendemonium 2008 entry. It was originally named The Untimely Kill )

They say a stitch in time can save nine. I had full faith in the above saying until one day the almighty conspired in favor of me coming to terms with the ground reality.

9 PM

Phat! Phat! I missed by a whisker on both occasion. “Ugh you little rascal, try as hard as you can but you cannot escape from my clutches.” As if to make a fool of me the little creature swerved right, plunged straight down, flew in between my legs and vanished into thin air.

I was not willing to give up so easily. Frantically I started searching every square inch of the room when an irritated voice called out, “papa, now will you stop running about the room and let me watch the cricket match in peace.”

Disgusted and defeated I sank into the sofa. The little ones do need to show a bit more respect towards their elders.

12AM

I was dreaming peacefully about running towards a bucket of gigantic rasgullas (I am diabetic) when I was disrupted by the siren of an ambulance. Petrified, I was about to turn around and sprint when I eventually woke up from slumber. The little thing was back again.

You may ask how I could be so sure this tiny opposition was the same one that had stumped me earlier. Well I don’t forget (or forgive) my enemies so easily.

At first I involuntarily tried shielding myself with the pillow & the bed sheet. When all attempts to reach an understanding failed, I dressed myself, took my position and there I was, ready for battle.

“We die for peace and glory” I shouted raising a rolled up calendar. A missile was fired but the opposition was alert. It increased its elevation and BANG!

The first innocent life had been sacrificed. The Chinese flower vase that was gifted on our 15th wedding anniversary was in million pieces. Thank God my wife is at her mother’s place for the night!

I bend down to pick up some of the pieces in disbelief when the opposition attacked. “Aah!” I cried out in anguish, caressing my neck, watching a tiny hemispherical emerging from my skin.

Next, the pillow went flying. Its journey terminated with it transferring its kinetic energy to a golden photo frame (containing our picture as newly weds), which subsequently had a free fall, transferring whatever remaining energy it had into sound.

And so the warriors departed one by one. Water bottle, bathroom slippers, pen-stand, paper weight and many more… The general lost count of the number of innocent lives lost, for we all know in war the lives of the innocent do not matter. The enemy must be brought down at all costs.

10AM

The sun was shining as brightly as ever. The birds were singing, the bees were humming, and dry leaves were rustling as if in an attempt to wake up the sleeping victor.

I lifted my bloody hands. Underneath them were the remains of what was once a mosquito. I looked around in disbelief. The entire place resembled an exhausted battle field. Broken pieces of glass covered the floor. The television screen had a hole that resembled the continent of South America (as given in Oxford’s at last). Chunks of cement were resting peacefully on my imported mattress. The antique ceiling fan, having lost one of its blades, was still making a valiant attempt to continue its mission. The damage was of several thousand.

They still say a stitch in time can save nine. I however have learnt a lot from that God-gifted experience. I recall those moments when “Phat! Phat!” and I had missed on both occasions, just by a “whisker”. If only I had the kill in time, I could definitely have saved nine.

Silently Walking By.....(First attempt at poetry)

2008-02-17T23:27:00.000-08:00

Silently I walked by
Grazing the land beneath the sky.
Through out the day and the night
I traveled on with all my might.
In the forest and in the hill
They welcomed me, even the mill.
I am mighty I can easily lift
Across the ocean I can easily drift.
I fulfill wishes that are made to me
Without any trouble and with glee.

There was this city that lay on my path
It had come under the weather’s wrath.
For months there had been no rain
And the people there had cried in pain.
They prayed to me to help their cause
As extremely confident of my abilities I was.
So I went to the paralyzed ocean
And set some dark clouds into motion.
In the city it finally did rain
Reliving the people of their grievous pain.

With my journey on I went
Mischievously blowing away a canvas tent.
Disturbing all the sleepy leaves
Just for fun I had them heaved.
Under the impression that I was supreme
Just then I was awaken from my dream.
A little girl came up to me
With hopeful eyes she announced her plea.
“I want to fly”, she declared “Oh wind!”
“Please help me, Oh I have never sinned.”
“Up in the air I want to rise
Touching the stars fixed in the skies”.

Baffled and confused I was
For I would have to defy the nature’s laws.
So I gathered all my strength
And started blowing but in vain.
Not an inch did the girl move
Instead she stood there with looks of disapprove.
Gradually my lungs grew tired
But still I could not fulfill what the girl desired.
Quietly I flew away into the open space
Failing to erase the sadness from the petitioner's face.
I used to think I was supreme
Feeling unmatched I used to beam.

Silently I walked by
Defeated I was under the moonlit sky.
Into several pieces my ego was shattered
My self-esteem had been brutally battered.
I realized that nature was the only supreme thing
Even though it had no flamboyant wing.
I was just part of it I did admit
To nature’s arms I did myself submit.

The Creator

2008-02-04T10:38:00.000-08:00

A gush of wind swept past the deserted road, causing serious unrest among the dry leaves which were sincerely covering it like a carpet. Up they went, full of excitement and vigor, chasing the wind that had just disturbed their slumber. They glided through the air in a synchronous manner, finally giving up their quest and landing with a rustling sound, delighting the single pair of eyes fixed on them.

Ratul Sarkar closed his notebook and rested his head on the bark of the adjacent peepel tree. His uncombed hair and his unkempt beard gave him a shabby appearance. The last few years had completely changed the course of his life. He had been on his way to graduating in the Arts, hoping to be a professor English when his father died in a train accident. As a consequence, he was forced to take up the job of a typist in a small publishing house. He worked in shifts of seven hours. On his way back from office, he would visit the present location to spend some undisturbed moments in the company of nature. This is the place where he worked, in creating short-stories. His job was to pen down the various tiny incidents that are watched by all, yet noticed by few. That is what made an author. May be some day, he dreamed, he would publish his own book. With his name Ratul Sarkar printed in bold on the cover page. It would be dedicated to his late father.

A strange expression inhabited Ratul’s face. His dreamy eyes contracted to indicate that his mind was submerged in complex thought. He was supposed to write a story. Not under his favourite peepul tree, but in a classroom filled with a hundred people who would be writing to win. He was to appear for the Satyajit Ray story writing competition 2007. ‘Writing to win’. Ratul wondered how, a person could create something to win? Yet he had to do it. It was an excellent opportunity to establish himself as an author. To add to it, the winner would receive a cash prize of rupees ten thousand. “Ten thousand rupees”, he said to himself, aiming a pebble at a nearby tree. That money could look after his brother’s education for a couple of years. It was very important to Ratul that his brother Shirish completed his education. He did not want the boy to suffer his fate.

* * *

The competition was to be held at a high school. Ratul reached the venue well in advance. A guard at the gate glanced at him suspiciously as he entered. The security had been beefed up as some celebrities were supposed to arrive. The other participants started arriving soon. Most of them were youngsters who like Ratul wanted to make a mark for themselves. The ones from affluent families arrived in their personal vehicles and walked about with their noses in the air. Ratul who was looking forward to seeing people with long beards wearing kurta, was taken aback. He walked into a classroom and located a seat near the window.

A young lady with her hair dyed brown arrived with a parchment in hand and scribbled something on the board. Ratul looked at the unfriendly topics in front of him. He had no idea how he could create a story out of them. Scanning the list of topics for the final time, he finally selected one saying “Write an original story related to the given line - I write sins not tragedies”.

Writing the topic in bold letters, he started thinking about a plot that could fit under the topic. Thoughts were flying all around his head. The writer began to panic as he wondered whether he had selected the correct topic. May be he should write on the one saying “A kill in time saves nine”. But then what could he write on that?

A mild headache was disrupting Ratul’s concentration. He had been forced to do back to back night shifts. The city book fair was just a fortnight away and the publishing houses were really busy. Maybe, Ratul wondered, it was all over. But then if this opportunity slipped by, he might remain a typist throughout his life. All his stories would remain unheard of and unappreciated.

The headache was gradually becoming unbearable. Ratul looked around in panic. Everyone else seemed to be lost in their world. The creator suddenly lost track of his thoughts and put his head down in despair. It was over.

* * *

Ratul Sarkar has become a renowned author of the city. He earns his livelihood by contributing short stories to various magazines. He has recently published a collection of short stories named ‘When silence speaks’. He had shot to fame by winning the Sayajit Ray story writing competition 2008(sic). His story was about a young author who gave up writing after failing to win a competition. Once in a while, he drags his aged body to the peepul tree beside the deserted road where it had all started.

After Pandemonium

2008-01-31T10:01:00.000-08:00

Finally I have won something in college. Second prize in our prose-writing competition. It was not very convincing. Not the way I wanted it to be. My story's plot sounds ridiculous. My grammar and spellings were reported to be ‘atrocious’. Anyway, first competition. I don’t blame myself for not being better. I didn’t go there to win. I knew my language was weak. It was just for experience. Moreover, my idea of creativity is not being trapped in a room with 30ppl with some unfriendly topics placed in front of you.
Let’s bunk all that for the moment. I don’t know why I won but since I have won so I think I should be happy about it.

Dedicated to Anamol and baromasi who appreciated my stories and encouraged me to write more and to Udita and Neelav for draging me to pandemonium.

Operation Infecto Leaderous

2007-12-23T05:24:00.000-08:00

“PARA 21892893 to PARA 87392819 can you hear me.”
“PARA 87392819 speaking. Yes sir I can hear you”.
“Good…you take your division to the left and search for targets there. I have sent others to check the right and the front.”
“Aye aye sir. Taking my division to the left. Over and out.”

“PARA 78678715 to PARA 87392819. Reporting from first floor toilet sir. Probable target found.”
“Alright give me details of target”
“Species homo sapien. Bathing in cold water. Apparently low immunity. Ideal condition for attack.”
“Alright PARA 78678715 wait at the site and keep an eye on the target. I will arrive with reinforcement in 19 seconds.”

There was a pause for sometime that apparently was very small for human beings but for the millions of paramoxyviruses it appeared to be an eternity. PARA 78678715 was in the process of letting out a yawn when an army of viruses started pouring in to the tiny bathroom.

“Hold back people till I tell you charge”, shouted PARA 87392819. “Ten… Nine…. Eight…. Seven…. Six…. Five….Four…Three….Two….One….ATTACK!!!”

* * *

“Your tea” said a gentle voice putting a cup of hot Makaibari tea on the bedside table. Dinesh Garai, opened half an eye, then half the other one, surveyed the situation, decided it was dark enough for him to lie down for at least five more minutes, then quickly shut whatever eye he had opened and pretended to be fast asleep.
Disgusted, Rekha left the room grumbling “don’t expect me to warm it again for the third time.”
“Ok I give up”, resigned Dinesh removing the blanket at attempting to get up from his cozy bed. It was then that he realized that something was wrong. His entire body was aching. He had an itching sensation behind his ears. He could feel himself burn even in that chilling morning. Panicking a bit he called out “Rekha just check my temperature, I feel feverish”.

Family physician Dr Deb nodded his head and pretended his best to sympathize with the patient. “I am afraid Mr Garai, I think you have measles. I cannot confirm it till I get the reports of the blood test, but the symptoms are quite prominent. Your eyes are red; there are spots on your face”.
“Measles” squeaked Dinesh, “but doctor the state elections start in three days I hardly have time to breath at the moment”.
“I am afraid that is out the question now. You will need at least a week of complete rest.” Then he handed over the prescription to Rekha and began explaining her the dosage.

Soon the episode was on every news channel.
“The personal assistance of Manish Pradhan, the leader of the opposition has been infected with measles, dealing a serious blow to Pradhan’s dream of winning the forthcoming state elections”.

The opposition was shattered. Dinesh was Pradhan’s right hand. He had a role in every major decision taken by the party. Dinesh’s house was transformed into a party office. The ground floor was occupied by politicians, party workers and journalists. Mr Pradhan himself was supposed to be visiting when some wise person said “Sir, I know you are the leader of the party, but I still think you can get measles. You cannot trust viruses”.
“Hmm” remarked Pradhan “that is something I had not considered.” So he ended up passing his get well soon wishes over the phone and then began wrecking his brain to find a solution to help him in that crisis.

So the headlines changed:
“The leader of the opposition has accused the state government of infecting their worker with measles. They have called for a 24 hour strike tomorrow and have asked for postponing the state elections.”

The chief minister Sunita Devi was in a very good mood till then. The day’s events were starting to assure her that she was moving towards another election win. Now after the counter attack by the opposition she was totally on the back foot. She did not know whether to laugh or to fume over the accusation made against her but she knew pretty well that she would have to move quickly and cautiously if she were to remain in the post for another term.

Headlines:
“The state government has sent a team of doctors to Mr Garai’s house but the opposition is refusing to let them treat him as they claim that they have no more trust left in the ruling party”.

Dr Deb was initially doing his best. He was receiving constant calls from the government that if Garai did not heal fast his career as doctor would come to an abrupt end. But then he was taken aside by a member of the opposition and warned that if Garai recovered before the elections, he might well have to pack his bags and move to some other place. Given the dilemma that he was in, the sixty year old doctor could not be blamed for hurriedly packing his belongings and taking a taxi to some unknown destination. Latest he was spotted was at Howrah station trying to catch a train to his village in Midnapore.
Luckily for the state government no one noticed him missing because with one more weapon up in their armory the opposition would be almost invincible.

Late at night when the opposition was totally off guard a team of medicos from the premier medical college stormed into Dinesh Garai’s house. By morning the situation was totally under the ruling part’s control and though the treating physicians did not notice any change in Dinesh Garai’s health, the headlines were, “Dinesh Garai recovering quickly, says chief minister.”

* * *

“PARA 87392819 to PARA 21892893”.
“Go ahead 87392819.”
“Sir my people are beginning to suffer from boredom. I suggest we travel to a different location”.
“Alright 87392819. Order all units to vacate the present location. We will soon start looking for a fresh target.”

There was a pause for 14 seconds, and then millions of paramoxyviruses began flowing out of Dinesh Garai’s body and out of the window into the infected air.

* * *

Headlines:
“Dinesh Garai recovers miraculously leaving no doubts about the efficiency of our health department.”

Sunita devi got up to a fresh morning. She was relieved. Peace had been restored. She attempted to get up. But her entire body was aching. Her eyes were red. There were spots on her face and something was itching behind her ears.

Devi’s Day Out

2007-11-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

“Oi, what are you doing tomorrow”? asked a voice behind me. Incidentally, I was engrossed in a game of fifa 08, trying to defend an attack by my opponent Manchester United and was under the impression that I was the only one in the room. But this unfortunate intrusion led to certain miscalculations on my part that ultimately resulted in Wayne Rooney kicking the ball into the goal with my goal keeper Jens Lehman hovering somewhere near the corner flag and the laptop screeching aloud “And Manchester United scores, What a strike by Rooney”!!!

Dejected I shut down the game and looked around to see who the culprit was. It happened to be a thoughtful Sayan Mitra, dressed in kurta-pajama in his usual zamindar style.

“Aren’t you doing anything tomorrow”? he repeated.

Still not sure what the whole thing was about, I enquired “Why? Any classes cancelled”? hoping that some frustrated political party might have declared a strike gifting us a delicious holiday.

“No, we do have classes”.

“Then what do you want me do”, I sighed with my suspicion giving way to irritation.

“Don’t you know its saptami tomorrow”?

“Oh! Really”? I said, amazed at how durga puja could have arrived so silently. Back home, the preparations for puja starts right from mid-August. Television and newspapers provide constant reminders about the upcoming event. Schools and colleges shut down at least a week before the climax. With the distribution of bonuses, the Government service-holders appear to be a happy lot. Shopping complexes are flooded with people of all ages. Brands come up with lucrative offers. “70% OFF” they will say. Huh 70%! They would have to pack their business if they were to sell at that rate. I sympathize for the enthusiastic people who stand in queues for hours without realizing that the 70% discount had been preceded by a 200% hike. Anyway, who am I to complain when every one else is happy. Finally, the roads are blocked, the bamboos are planted, the pandals go up and get set and so.

It took me a few moments to realize that the whole procedure of the “arrival of the puja” had been totally bypassed and now we stood there right in front of the big event. What was worse was the fact that the on saptami, not only was I suppose to attend class (for the first time in my life), but I was suppose to spend three hours in a smithy workshop trying to convert a piece of iron into funny shapes as per the whims of the workshop supervisor. “Three valuable hours”, I said to myself. I could have visited at least a couple of popular pandals by then.

The next day was a perfectly normal one. The sun rose, the birds sang, the bees hummed the leaves rustled and I as usual hiked my way up to college. It was only in the evening that something happened out of the ordinary reminding me of the occasion. It wasn’t the sound of the dhak or the toy-pistols that brought the message but it was in fact a deduction in my account balance made for sending a sms that made me first enquire and later realize that it was mahasaptami. “Welcome to the days of durga puja”, I grumbled, unhappy about the fact that I now had a rupee less in my account.

The second day however was much more action packed than the first one. I was informed that the locals perform their puja on ashtami (this information was provide by my workshop supervisor the previous day when he welcomed me for the puja held in second year workshop).Puja in workshop!? Well, I haven’t really understood the concept of durga puja in manipal but apparently the durga puja is conducted at places that have machines. Something like vishwakarma puja back home.

Whatever the concept may be, on ashtami I dressed into a white kurta and hoping that I wouldn’t feel out of place, made my way to college.

Our unofficial puja holiday was the 30 minutes break. Along with my friends I started the puja parikrama. First puja that came to our notice was the one in electrical and electronics lab. We were actually going to the canteen when Kaustav spotted an artistic gate made up of leaves outside the lab that we concluded was not there a couple of days back. We offered our prayers and headed for the workshop.

On the way we spotted a huge crowd in the central library. Now, I had always known about the existence of an idol of swaraswati in the library but never had I realized being Durga’s daughter she had enough rights to be worshipped on Durga puja. Apparently a huge number of people had realized the above fact and this had resulted into a puja in the library.

With two pujas added to our statistics we continued our journey to the workshop.

This time we were interrupted at the machinery department. Puja number three was smaller in magnitude but the people involved seemed to be very devoted.

Finally we reached the workshop. It was completely deserted. Our workshop supervisor was busy in conversation with a faculty so I waited nearby till he finally noticed me. “Kya Tripathi sahib? Kuch kaam hai kya”? Baffled, I replied “Sir, You had invited us for the puja?” “It’s not yet time Mr. Tripathi. I called you at twelve its not even eleven”. Till that moment I was still under the impression that preparations for a durga puja take atleast a week or so but was at that point that I realized that it could shape up in the matter of an hour. “You can go and visit the civil department if you are free”, added one of the assistants.

It was a tedious job spotting the puja in the civil department. A huge number of people seemed to have visited a puja nearby (this was evident from the packets of prasad that they were busy with) but no one seemed to know the exact location of it. When we finally reached our destination it was time for class. Some mischievous person wrongly informed us that the break had been extended by 15minutes. When we learnt that the above information was not true, we were already late for class. So we hurriedly collected our prasad and scrambled back to our respectively classrooms hoping devi had given us enough blessings for professor to allow us in.

During lunch break I visited the workshop. It definitely hosted the biggest durga puja at MIT. Hundreds of people looked on as the pundit performed the rituals. Our workshop assistant (who had refused to help me the previous day with my smithy model) smiled and offered me another packet of prasad.

This brought us to end puja in manipal. The next day was declared a holiday (We never found out why it was so).

As I look back on the days of the devi’s visit to manipal, there is still one question that troubles my confused mind. If the puja was celebrated on ashtami, then why was it a holiday the next day and why was I charged for my messages, the previous day?

GOD’S OWN CHILD

2007-10-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

Back in the days of high school we were taught about social evils that have been a part of our rich culture for centuries. Those who boast of our culture overlooking the dark side of it are perfect examples of the modern day hypocrite. Most of us who have studied in missionary schools and have been brought up in a sheltered environment feel that our country has progressed enough and those dark practices that had poisoned the human mind for so long are now a thing of the past. However, some of my personal experiences prompted me to write this story. A humble attempt to send a necessary message to the twenty-first century statesman.

* * *

As the train rolled slowly on to the platform, Ratul gathered his belonging and headed towards the nearest exit. There was a slight drizzle in the air and as expected Vinodh uncle was there on the platform with a giant umbrella in his hand. Ratul waved at the sixty year old who hurried to the boy and held the umbrella above his head. Grabbing the huge trolley bag he led the boy out of the platform. There was no point arguing with uncle that he was a grown up now and could carry his own luggage. So he moved embarrassingly as people gave him nasty looks for allowing an old man carry a heavy load when he was walking empty-handed.

Once out of the platform they headed for the rickshaw stand. “Happy Villa” said uncle Vinodh as he got onto the nearest rickshaw. As the vehicle moved gently swaying from one side to another and trying to avoid as many potholes as possible, Ratul looked around for any visible change that the place might have undergone.

Not much he concluded. A few new houses here and there. The vacant place behind the dairy was now occupied by a three storeyed building. Old Ramu’s kite shop had disappeared. In its place stood a cyber café. Ratul’s heart sunk when he realised there would be no kite-flying this holidays. He was really looking forward to it. That was what he loved most. He used to spend hours on the roof until he was chided and dragged downstairs to study. Opening the ‘Radiant Reader’ and making an attempt to study he would soon realize that there were better things to do. So he would quietly peep out of the adjacent window and stare at the kites soaring in the clear blue sky. Sometimes they moved swiftly as the gazelle and on other occasions as lazily as the old headmaster of his primary school. Ratul could spend hours watching kites. Perhaps the boy had discovered that it satisfied the urge to fly that was inherent in every human being.

Ratul’s trance was broken by his uncle’s voice commanding the young rickshaw-puller to stop at the next house with a blue door. As soon as they landed, the door flung open and out came aunt Reema beaming all over her face. She hugged the boy with so much affection that Ratul was almost suffocated. She was obviously delighted to see her nephew. Quickly Ratul’s bag was sent upstairs to his room facing the train line. Exhausted from the journey Ratul felt he desperately needed a shower.

When he came downstairs, lunch was ready. Aunt had included chilly prawn and fried potatoes in the menu. She knew what her nephew liked most. Ratul had been to many expensive restaurants but he still considered his aunt to be the best cook in the world. Even uncle Vinodh felt his lost appetite return. Such delicious food in the company of his beloved nephew made the occasion very special for him.

The bell rang and the old maid arrived. She too was happy to see the boy. She had been serving in the house for 30 years and now had become a part of the family. Though she had grown old now and was not as efficient as before uncle & aunty did not remove her from the job. After serving the food aunt returned to her daily gossip with the maid. She was her source for local news. Mr. Roy’s son had failed in his board exam yet again. Babulal’s drugstore had been shut down after the police caught him selling illegal substances.

“Oh! How could I forget to tell you,” said aunt Seema. The milk man said that a young boy had been drowned in the slum behind the high school ground.”

“Drowned!” everyone chorused. “But there are no ponds over there?”

“Yes” said aunt as the atmosphere became gloomy. “Actually after the past two day’s rain the high drain had over-flowed. The boy was going from his house to his grandparent’s place that was just 20 yards away. He tried to jump over the drain but instead he slipped into it. Then the current dragged him and surprisingly till afternoon no one noticed that he was missing. When the search started it was too late. The body was found at evening near the old temple.

There was a bitter feeling in the air. Every one was shocked. Suddenly the chilly prawn and the fried potatoes lost their charm.

“I have been complaining to the chairman of the municipality about the open drains for so long. This accident could have been avoided if they had common sense,” said uncle in disgust.

Aunt Reema herself was lost in thoughts for a while. Then something broke her trance. “Anyway,” she said heaving a sigh of relief “it was a Muslim’s child”.

This seemed to lighten the situation to a great extent. The old maid got back to washing plates. Uncle Vinodh was busy with one of the sweet mangoes he had purchased at a special price from his familiar shopkeeper. “What are you waiting for my child? Hurry or the curry will get cold”, he mentioned. Life was perfectly normal.

At night Ratul found himself peeping out of his favourite window near the study table. As he blankly stared at the stars in the clear sky, a question came back to haunt the innocent mind again and again. “Why did the fact that the boy was Muslim make the death so acceptable to everyone?”

Whose fault was it that he was a Muslim? Who was to be blamed for it? The little creature who had just become destiny’s prey a day after he had learnt to sing “twinkle-twinkle little star” at an ngo sponsored nursery school? Or was it the widowed mother who had spent the last couple of days weeping, barely managing to eat anything. What else could she do, her only reason for survival had deserted her, forever.

Tale of the Maxriter

2007-10-09T03:29:00.000-07:00

Due to unavoidable circumstances the "Tale of the Maxriter" had to be temporarily removed....sorry for the inconvenience....it will be put up by 10th november....you can send me your email id if you want me to email it to you

Crossing the teens....

2007-09-29T10:41:00.001-07:00

Here comes another b'day. Normaly I'm not the type of person who loves trumpeting aloud "hey its my b'day! its my b'day" but this particular one has a certain degree of significance. This year I'm actually crossing the barrier of the teen age. Now when teens started I was too young too realise what was going around. For a very long time I've considered myself to be a teenager and thought thats how life will be forever. So now it feels really strange that I am no more the cheerful teenager, being chided for doing anything that doesnt please the adults and still giggling around all day without any responsibilities. Dreaming to be Sachin Tendulkar in sports, Albert Einstein in studies and a Subhash Chandra bose as a leader. However, the teens seems to take away the dreams they brought along with them. Now its time to be serious(atleast a little bit). I have gained my adolesence over the past 7 years. These years have been the training ground for what i'm going to face in the future. Lets hope the training has been good.(One of the things that survived my teenage is my email id qwer45us)

Okhil Babu

2007-09-09T02:23:00.000-07:00

Okhil Babu's letter to the Railway Department (early 1900's - Imagine a Bangla accent) ==============================================================

"I am arrive by passenger train Ahmedpur station and my belly is too much swelling with jackfruit. I am therefore went to privy. Just I doing the nuisance that guard making whistle blow for train to go off and I am running with 'lotah' in one hand and 'dhoti' in the next when I am fall over and expose all my shocking to man and female women on plateform. I am got leaved at Ahmedpur station. This too much bad, if passenger go to make dung that dam guard not wait train five minutes for him. I am therefore pray your honour to make big fine on that guard for public sake. Otherwise I am making big report to papers."

Okhil Chandra Sen wrote this letter to the Sahibganj divisional railway office in 1909. It is on display at the Railway Museum in New Delhi. It was also reproduced under the caption "Travellers' Tales" in the Far Eastern Economic Review.

Any guesses why this letter is of historic value?

It led to the introduction of TOILETS in trains!!!!!!!!!

SUDOKU – The fastest growing puzzle in the world

2007-09-08T11:20:00.001-07:00

Hey friends, have you ever wondered about the origin of Sudoku, perhaps the most addictive puzzle to have been ever made. After a brief search on the internet, this is some of the data that I stumbled on.

It is almost impossible to pin point the date and the place where the concept of Sudoku originated, but it seems to be related to the appearance of the first Magic Squares. The idea of the magic square was transmitted to the Arabs from the Chinese, probably through India, in the eighth century.

Much later, in the 18^th century, a Swiss mathematician, Leonhard Euler constructed Magic Squares with a certain number of cells, in particular 9, 16, 25, and 36. Euler put Latin letters into a grid, and called it a Latin square. Later, when he added Greek letters, he called it a Greco-Latin square. Spending the last years of his life dealing with the different possibilities of Magic Squares, Euler was faced with the special problem to combine two sets of n symbols each so that neither in a row nor in a line a pair of symbols occurred twice. He demonstrated methods for constructing Graeco-Latin Squares where n is odd or a multiple of 4. Observing that no order-2 square exists and unable to construct an order-6 square, he conjectured that none exist when n ≡ 2 (mod 4). Indeed, the non-existence of order-6 squares was definitely confirmed in 1901 by the French mathematician Gaston Tarry through exhaustive enumeration of all possible arrangement of symbols.
It was only 58 years later, in 1959 and with the help of computers, when two American mathematicians named Bose and Shrikhande, found some counterexamples to Euler's conjecture. At the same year, Parker found a counterexample of order 10. In 1960, Parker, Bose and Shrikhande showed Euler's conjecture to be false for all n ≥ 10. Thus, Graeco-Latin Squares exist for all orders n ≥ 3 except n = 6.

Dell Magazines published the puzzle under the name of Number Place for over 25 years. It is a staple of Dell Magazines to this day. You can find Number Place in Dell Collector's Series.

The puzzle was introduced to Japan by Nikoli under the name of 'Suuji wa dokushin ni kagiru' roughly translating to mean the numbers must be unmarried or single. Thankfully the name has been shortened to Sudoku.

The history of Sudoku continues to grow. Today you will find not only Sudoku puzzle books, but Sudoku hand held games, Sudoku board games and a growing list of merchandise.

Is sudoku just a fashion that will fade away in a few years? Only time can answer that. I personally believe that it is here to stay.

Enough of history for the moment. It is duty hours for your brain. Lets see how fast you can solve this medium level Sudoku. Send me the answers at qwer45us@yahoo.com. The editor has promised to publish names of first 5 people who come up with the right solution in our next edition. Best of luck!

Courtesy :

wikipedia.com, conceptipuzzles.com, websudoku.com

Compiled by: Agni Tripathi

The Meeting

2007-09-07T08:32:00.000-07:00

This story is dedicated to someone who traveled thousands of miles to visit the person whom he had never seen.

The clear sky was painted crimson by the setting sun. Fresh air filled Sayak’s lungs as he leaned upon the tracks to see any sign of the arriving train. He was late for an important meeting. Realizing that there were at least 15 minutes for the 8.30 train to arrive, he dragged his heavy legs with all his remaining strength and walked to the nearest empty bench. As he sat staring at the clear sky, the events of the day suddenly flashed through his mind.

* * *

It was a typical Kolkata summer afternoon. Office hours were getting over and dutiful clerks who spent most of the day devising ways and means of getting out of their office as fast as possible could be seen crowding around the bus stops. It was May and the heat was almost unbearable.

It was a special day for Sayak Roy. It was his first day at work. Numerous dreams revolved around this very day. He had finished college a year ago. Pampered son from a rich family, never had he realized that earning a livelihood in this city was tougher than riding a bicycle with eyes blindfolded. After a year’s struggle he managed to get a job in a multinational company. It offered a handsome salary, enough to guarantee a comfortable life anywhere in India.

The new job made the day important for Sayak but there was something else that made it the day of his life. There was someone, somewhere for whom his heart did beat every moment. The person who he had fallen in love with without meeting even once. They had got in touch through the internet to discuss the works of one of the famous Indian poets. Differences in opinion had led to heated discussion that went on for hours and days. This was how their friendship started. It became mandatory to call each other every day. They used to confess their feelings to each other. Days passed. Phone bills were ever-increasing. Days and nights were spent thinking and dreaming about the other. None of them realized when they fell in love. Then suddenly one day Sayak proposed marriage to her, a most absurd idea for people who never even met each other.

She agreed but there was a condition. She would be his, but only when he got a job. Till then they would remain strangers in actual life. It was decided he would meet her on the first day of his work.

The moment had finally arrived. He stood at the bus stand waiting for bus to arrive. The sky had turned a distinct grey over the past hour or so. A chill wind swept the place. A storm was approaching. A nor'wester. Common to these parts of the country. The people heaved a sigh of relief. It would be a pleasant change from the scorching summer heat.

Pedestrians hopped onto the over crowded buses. It was not a great idea to be outdoors when the storm arrived.

Unfortunately for Sayak there was not a single bus to Tollygunj. After waiting patiently for 15 minutes, he decided to take a taxi. He wasn’t even half way there when the rains arrived. Traffic came to a standstill. As usual tempers were rising. The drivers hurled abuses at each other. Even the so called gentlemen who were held high posts in their respective offices were seen participating actively in the heated exchange of words. As Sayak put his hand out of the window a couple of hail stones landed onto his palms. He caught few of them and then tightened his grip. As the frozen balls melted they sent shivers across his spine. He had relished this feeling ever since he was a child.

As the taxi continued its journey, the traffic seemed to ease. When Sayak arrived at his destination, it had stopped raining. The air was soaked wet with moisture. He waited impatiently, but there was no sign of the person who he was expected to meet. Suddenly the mobile phone came to life singing a romantic tune from a recent bollywood blockbuster. It was a call from an unknown number. Sayak received the call in great anticipation.

“Hello. Is this Mr. Sayak Roy?” enquired a polite voice.

“Yes. May I know who this is?”

“I am speaking from Belle Vue nursing home. I am afraid your relative Ria Sharma is dead.”

Sayak felt the earth beneath his feet shift aside to offer him space to sink. Sink deep into infinite depth. It was as if all light had suddenly vanished from the universe.

The voice at the other end continued.

“She was brought here after a bus accident. Our doctors tried their best but she was too critical. We found her mobile phone. Could you please inform her parents? I have been trying to reach them for a long time but the network is busy.”

* * *

A yellow spot of light had suddenly turned up on the steel tracks much to the relief of Sayak. He was already hours late for the meeting and this meant a lot for a person who had never ever been late for any appointment. It was a shame that his record had to be broken today.

The yellow light was growing bigger with every passing moment. The dead platform had come to life. People were rushing in all directions. Hawkers arranged their goods and got ready to fight with the crowd in order to get into a compartment.

The train would reach the platform any moment. Sayak looked up at the sky for the last time. There was a particularly bright star at the zenith. It seemed to outshine every other star present in the sky. The engine had just reached the platform. The train was still traveling at a decent speed. People moved a couple of steps backward to avoid the sudden gush of air. Sayak isolated himself from the crowd, took a few steps forward, closed his eyes and then plunged forward onto the tracks. 150 tonnes of iron rammed into him and shattered his body into pieces as hundreds of people looked on, traumatized.

A few kilometers away Ria waited patiently for the person who meant everything to her. She had been delayed by a bus accident. Her cell phone was lost but she had a narrow escape. As time passed Ria’s anxiety grew. Where was Sayak? Had he already left? If she only knew how significant her question was.