Better than a Bullet

He will be turning five next month and plans for a grand celebration were taking shape. Although they didn't own anything much, the family was ready to debt all for his happiness. His father was up and joyous, running like a kid across streets in search for the perfect gift. His mother was rummaging through supplies; she had suddenly found the need to cook up a delicacy; something which was a rarity now. She made her way to the city market, cutting across cracked roads, shattered houses and broken lives.
It has been three years now, and the sounds of shelling refuse to die out. The outbreak was inevitable but the outcome was not what it turned out to be. The outside world has been trying to broker a deal between the state and the society. But in the desert, sand dunes keep shifting over time. Originally thought to last over 18 months, the war has proved costly, as every war does. The only difference is that a civil war creates more bodies to be buried than an actual war. People are living their lives-go to work, do their daily activities, eat, sleep but in silence.
His father had joined the rebels, like many others who were antagonized by the functioning (non-functioning) of the government. Oppression and blatant abuse of power had the citizens seething in pain and anger. Then there were vested interest groups who wanted the government to topple over. However, protestation is one thing and rebellion is entirely different. This, they realized as the war progressed. The government didn't spare anyone who was even remotely related to the rebellion. Innocents had become a shooting game for snipers. Children were found lying dead, sometimes in the wombs of their mothers. People had suddenly come to terms with the situation.  So it was nothing less than a miracle for  him to survive till five. And to mark the celebrations, his father was in hunt for the perfect gift, something that will define his future.
-"I'll need a colt .47 with twelve rounds"
-"That's a very primitive piece of machinery sir. Let me show you some long-range ones"
-"It's ok. I already have a plenty. This is for my son, his first artillery!" he exclaimed with gleam in his eyes.
-"How old is your son? He may like to try a bigger gun"
-"It's a birthday gift. He'll be turning five soon. I'd like to start him with something small"
The salesman stared for a moment and nodded his head, "I'm sorry sir, you're at the wrong place. We sell war here, not peace."
-"Well I'm asking for something that will lead to peace in future. How do you deny selling that"
-"War may end the tyranny but it never has bought peace. Down the alley, there's a small shop. They keep random, old, stuff that everyone has discarded. Maybe, you'll find something from the past worth gifting your child, for his future. At least it'll better than a bullet"

Atithi (The Guest)

"Tumi eshecho...opekhaye chilam. Tomar jonne shondhetake shajiye rekhechi dakho", there was stillness all-around and the only whispers that could be heard were the winds murmuring about who was I. "Tui dekhechish agey ekey?","Amar mone aschena; onek agey eshchilo akbar, tokhon amar boyesh khub olpo....". There were few apprehensions among them regarding my unannounced presence.

Nijeke chena ojana mela meshano obosthaye pelam. Jano harano smriti abar fire pete eshchi ekhane. Jano dirgho din dhore amake o kichu bolte chaichilo aar ami shunte paini. I walked past the strangeness surrounding me and headed towards dusk. 

Dhire dhire oshoshti ta katlo; rasta ghat shobai chinte parlo amar chotobelar din gulo theke. Tara amake dekhe khushi holo, bollo,"Kothayo tomar ojana noye, tumi egolei shob chine jabe,". Jei jayega gulo agey paa badate bhoye petam, mone hoto amar asbasti dhora pore jabe okhane. The air seemed different this winter, or was it me that had prevented the breeze from entering my quarters. Did I hold any grudge, any grievances which I held her responsible for? Could it be that my recluse had prevented her from speaking up? All such questions girdled inside while I roamed day in and day out.

Onek shondhe ketegalo aar shei chole jawar shomoye goriye elo; chole jawa ta bodhaye du rokom'er hoye-ak jeta fire ashar bhorsha diye thake aar unnota, jeta chirokaler moton bidaye janiye daye. Aktate abar dekha howar opekkha dhore thakte hoye aar unnotaye smriti gulo guchiye rakhte hoye. Er agey jotobar eshechi, nijeke agontuk hishebe dekhtam or chokhe, eibar bujhlam je amake otithi hishebe mene niye che. 

The city had remained as it was, in its place, in its time. It was me who had drifted apart, and held her responsible for not calling me back. I would argue with her on why she let me go away; why she didn't held me back in her heart. But I had to accept defeat; you can't win over quietness. She still made decorated the evenings for me like before, its only now that I'm able to accept the gratitude. It's only now that losing seems peaceful in those alleys.

-"Abar ashbe to?..Ashle bhalo lage. Tomar jonne shob guchiye rakhbo". 

-"Tomake aar kichu gochate hobena..ami poth thik kunjhe nebo. Na harale..abar tomaye pabo kibhabe!" 

Mannequin Store

As I entered the apartment, she was standing there with a calm expression as if she waited for my arrival. She stood by the hallway, still and drew me towards her. The eyes were poised, with thick brows and her lips were chiseled to perfection.
"There were heaps of files today. All staring at me and asking to help them find a suitable place of rest. All day, I wait for your look, your eyes know where my resting place is," and I went on with my daily blabber. She listened silently, without interrupting my nonsense. Without halting me to an abrupt stop.
I went into the kitchen, "what shall we have for dinner today...I'd say lets try sweet in the end. I learnt a new cake recipe from our receptionist. Now don't you think otherwise," and I started laughing. All this while, she listened without uttering a word. This is the routine every evening, I speak, shout, laugh, do the chores, cook, eat, sleep and all that time, she's there beside me, absolutely still. Well, atleast there's someone.

I had bought her a month back from the store two blocks away, down the street. I was told everyone has it in their homes. Working people, mid-aged, children; all have their own separate demands. There a  number of shops selling them in the city. One could place also place orders according to choice and preferences. These Mannequin stores had mushroomed, feeding on the needs of our capitalist society. Once every need, every wish was brought under codification, the entire space of consumerism changed. Every wish, every attribute was now quantifiable. Companies started using technology and flooded the markets with ultimate grandeur of materialism.
These toys filled the vacuum that  the society was caving into. Every individual you met had the urge to be taken, to be sheltered, to be cared. Everybody was in want of something. But there were no givers. Then, we started substituting our needs with cheap source of entertainment. People were ready to pay any price for fulfilling their demands. I don't know exactly who came up with this idea; but 'twas a smart sell! In fact, I can't imagine my evenings without having that plastic around. Her presence exuberates positivity to my home. 
"I'm home", I said in my usual exhaustive tone entering the room. She lay there flat on the floor, her arms were broken and her skull was cracked. Rooted to the spot, I stood shocked beyond belief. My voice was stuck somewhere inside the throat and tears filled the eyes. "What should I do, where do I take her, could she be brought back?" All these questions bombarded within my grey walls. She was a beautiful specimen, simple yet adoring.
"Hi, could I have a replacement for this mannequin?The one I had bought broke apart and thankfully, It's still in guarantee period". I was at the store the next morning, searching for another piece. There she was, 'the' another piece, made of better plastic and more real looking. And I got a discount too. Couldn't have been happier. My evenings are restored.

Chasing the CLOUDS

The grass beneath my feet is tender and greener than my eyes could imagine. The valley sloping down where it meets civilization. Down the plains, there are lights and shimmers, there are roofs and roads. There are people who live within walls; walls that are plastered and colored with the riches of our lives. 

Up here, there's nothing but winds, cool and calm. There is vastness as far as my sight goes only to be interrupted by pines. The trees stand as milestones of the way, a spot to rest and look back at the distance covered. A spot to exhale the exhaustion of the journey. And I'm on my way-chasing the clouds. I'm intrigued by their mystery; yes there's mystery of slight proportion in them. Sometimes slender, sometimes huge, sometimes hiding behind the sun and sometimes hiding the moon!! Traversing across the world, they carry tales of hope, happiness, sorrow, despair, joy, love and a gamut of emotions not know to us. I'm chasing them to catch hold of at-least one. That will be my ultimate treasure. 

Walking along this valley, I feel that they're within reach now. They've befriended me on their journey, I believe. They talk to me about their work, their routine, share there moments but they never let me inside their heart. All I want is to understand them from within; 'cause knowing from outside is not knowing. 
My supplies are reaching an end and so is the journey. The edge of the valley is within sight now.

I had almost made it; almost.A cloud, young in age, simple and sweet had agreed to stay back. For moments, the whole universe was within in my palms, it felt. It felt that my feet were off the earth. But then, it dawned upon me, where do I keep this cloud; I have no place within. My pockets are filled with worldly assortments, my bag is full of materialistic comforts and my mind is short on time to consider. I had to let it go. The loss was mine, entirely. I had my options and i made no choice out of them.

I still chase now, not on valleys but on roads (the civilization I talked about). I chase people for with the same intentions, i.e. to understand, but can't. Trust has had its burial and belief is counting its days, I'm told.

Casablanca and the "Casette"

Ilsa: Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.
Sam: [lying] I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa.
Ilsa: Play it, Sam. Play "As Time Goes By." 
Sam: [singing] You must remember this / A kiss is still a kiss / A sigh is just a sigh / The fundamental things apply / As time goes by. / And when two lovers woo, / They still say, "I love you" / On that you can rely / No matter what the future brings-...  

For the uninitiated, these are the famous lines that ever came on reel in one the finest movies of our times-Casablanca. Set in the backdrop of the Second World War, the movie did more than pay homage to the Moroccan city; it showed that reminiscence is a beauty but not beautiful enough to carry it along. It showed why past is important; why an unfinished past will always get resolved in today's evening at a local bar before the future sun rises.
"This day and age we're living in
Gives cause for apprehension
With speed and new invention
And things like fourth dimension.

Yet we get a trifle weary
With Mr. Einstein's theory.
So we must get down to earth at times
Relax relieve the tension....."
These are the opening lines to this song. Songs have an intricate attribute-they can take you to any time, any place in the comfort of our armchair. The humble Cassette is reminiscent of that time when you could rely on people's words; when words came from the heart and not from the mouth. As Ilsa urges to play that song for old times' sake,  the cassette also urges us to look back and wipe that dust out. As the cassette plays, you know there are certain things which retain their essence; be it today or tomorrow. 

Today, I have my world in a miniscule device, but that world is subjected to alterations. It can be shaped as I like, removing the times which are sour and plucking the best frames only. The Cassette couldn't do that-it had a start and an end and you went the entire road at a stretch. Every song, every word comes and goes at its own pace.

"As time goes by", we'll remember the evenings which were idle and breezy, and "Ilsa" would have said-'play it again!'.

Search for an "EXCUSE"

People tend to search,don't we? Sometimes for that lost pen in the bag; maybe you misplaced that book somewhere; the wallet in the wrong drawer or the crumbled shirt dying in need for a wash...we do search a plenty. It is what we live on- searching is what brings us to the right person, the right place, the right work and the right life. But we also have excuses to conceal our desires.

Excuse is generously used to wrap our emotions-we excuse ourselves from doing certain things and then we have an excuse for doing the other. We have an excuse for speaking to someone and an excuse for not talking to else; an excuse for concerning and another for indifference. 
So why this edifice of excuse to built our life upon? Why plaster our walls with justification of the feel? Why draw curtains on the eyes? Emotions don't beget explanations yet our excuses offer to show why do I feel the way I do. 

What have emotions done to me may not do the same to you; the way I tread is not the road you walk; the winds I breathe haven't heard your name. Hence I need an excuse to cross your path..on the pretext of asking directions. I need an excuse to hear you by asking your well-being and I need an excuse to tell what I want. I carry a satchel filled with different kinds of reasoning- some to initiate the talk, some to convey the regards, some to share the thoughts, some to know the you! 

I keep searching along the paths and have trotted miles for the best excuses. Villages and towns, shops and bazaar, I've traded excuses for a living. The persons that met me along ; got an excuse for my parting. Never did I gave courage to my emotions and neither did I let them fly. Thus, burdened with those tangled thoughts, trudging, I search for excuses to be in society, to be a cynic someday.

Shohorer Goppo ( Story of a City)

Would you listen to a story? Doesn't a story get you excited; the way a plot unfolds, the characters take shape, the emotions flow and the climax! Did you hate the English class in school, when the teacher read out a new chapter, a new beginning everyday? I don't think so. So come sit, lets see what we have here.

I do have a story of mine; so do you. I may be a character in yours and you definitely play a role in mine. I don't know when and how your character got introduced; but you stayed. Chapter after chapter..getting intertwined with my plot and this is how I have you here beside me. So where were we..a a story. As I travel, look around and pause to ponder..I seem to pass on a tangent of many feelings. So many emotions lay in this city.. some I can relate to. Some lay astray on the roads, on the pavements; those unfinished emotions will be lost in pile of garbage maybe. The city has glitter, it may blind you at first but look beyond and there in the shadows you'll find- a life lingering on for survival with small doses of hope.
I see glimpses of love in some eyes; eyes speaking affection. The other day I heard," I'm there for you, don't you break down. I'll stand by you. We'll walk through this together". Don't mistake me for eves-dropping, it was all in her eyes. You see, eyes speak volumes if they have to. What amount of time do we have to actually speak out? To tell someone what all happened in the day, no matter how trivial it may be. Do we have a listener for our stupid sentiments, for our gimmicks, for our hopes and hues? There are many unfinished chapters wanting for an end, for a climax. The city gives you the beginning; it will introduce the plethora of characters that you'll be left wanting for more.

By the time you reach the ending and look back, they're gone. But you're here listening all this while. Oh! the story..it's not finished yet my friend. The city has many stories, each day I pass by a chapter. Words will falll short to finish what we started.

Luggage VS Baggage

It took a long time to come; a long time to think and ponder on. I was busy packing.

Packing my belongings and recollecting all that was there. Sometimes it takes a while to pack your past. Once you have established yourself in a place, you're a part of its existence. An existence breathed life into by the characters around you. The place is existing because we're there else it is a memory. And it is better to pack your memories before they get scattered in to the winds.

While packing, has it ever crossed your mind that what is it- is it my luggage or my baggage? Now, ain't both of these synonyms?? They're supposed to mean the same- across all travel catalogs, across all the destinations, amid those transits, those midnight halts, those check-in counters, in all languages; isn't it. Maybe not my friend!

Luggage is the burden that I trudge along from one place to another; from one destination to another. It bears on my shoulders heavily. My luggage is unpleasant, filled with that pouch of rotten evenings, that backpack of sick books and the trolley of stale conversations. Am I carrying that or is it otherwise? Baggage compiles of that trunk which your friends stuffed with stupidities, that suitcase where you dumped the eventful nights, those side-bags heavy with the moments you lived in. 

So what is it my friend? I have my packing done, it's time to go. Some paraphernalia will be left behind, I guess. Let my share your luggage to ease your burden or else let my add to your baggage that which I can't carry.