Ninety ML

-"Ninety ml; the usual with soda and ice. Make it together and quick. Thank you"
 I looked at the waiter, expecting some amount of strangeness to appear in his voice. However, he was nonchalant to this atypical order, and to a certain extent, he put me at ease with my unknown companion for the evening. His only response was a question-"Would that be all Sir?"
-"Yes, nothing more,"thus ending his short conversation with the waiter on a brusque note. He then turned his sight on me and smiled. Those bespectacled eyes tried to resonate the same, but were burdened by the brows. With a voice that was heavy yet sombre , it felt like his words were failing in trying to find a space in the emotional chaos of others.Yet his presence could not be dismissed, bordering between friendly and overbearing.

-"Would you care to for company?", and I had looked up to this middle-aged man, dressed in complete contradiction to the evening.  After he settled down thanking his just found company,he placed the the 'neatest' order I've come to hear or see till now. And so the evening began.

It was dim light interior, some shade of red it might be, lending a mystique blend to the intoxication room. In such situations, putting all the blame on liquor for misinterpreting someone would be a wrong-doing; part of the judgement error is also attributable to high "spirits". The physical space was economical in appearance, having ghettoized itself from the city, which breathed different air and woke up to a different morning. The people flocking here are a separate class, existing in anonymity, knowing that the city belongs more to others and they are just small cogs in the wheel. It is here where they pour out the excreta of daily grind, how hierarchy weighs upon them, how denial glares at them. But sensibility only last a while before the din dies out and then, its only the three of us-me, my glass and my companion.

-"My drinking has reduced considerably. Not like before now..you see health doesn't support my whims!," in trying to justify this peculiar habit given the age to bear, he was offering explanation to a stranger. 
-"I started drinking at the age of around 40. Have been a regular here since then-you see the ambiance is lot like home, but not home (and laughed). The usual glasses, the wooden tables and similar ceiling fan, except it doesn't stare down upon as you gulp to glory."
-"How much in a week, it is then?," attempting to pay interest in his account .
-"Just this much, twice a week, preferably when it (week) ends. Earlier, it used be alternate days. But after this heart condition, it had to be reduced," taking another sip, he continued, "My wife would disapprove my drinking and we have had frequent quarrels. To think of it now, it none her fault, neither 'twas mine. Somehow, two persons are brought together and circumstances don't allow them to leave  each other. They live it through, like sailing the rough seas."

A music came to our ears; the radio had started its routine-mellow the evening so that you and I can linger little longer here and empty more glasses. Both our glasses were half-way down and would near the end soon.
-"I had once been to the east, posted there for good ten years. People there are attached to earth, grounded and firm; so was she. Once I had brought her a jamdani  saree from there and what joy in those eyes..you see a woman always loves to be gifted, to be told that she's the 'present' for you," he chuckled and continued.
-"We need intoxication, no doubt 'bout that. It could be in any form and in any place. Like a necessary poison. But truth to be told, you get tipsy only once, and that's not through liquor."

Winds of the night swayed through the streets: those dimly lit streets wrapped in fog. Its winter in the west and the fog, sailing through the seas, settles down here on the coast. We are habituated with this haze, using our judgment to steer daily life. But sometimes, errors are made, which lead to the wrong path. It's only when you're afar, that return becomes untraceable.

With the last sip down, he said, "We'll I'm done with my evening, thanks for sharing it."
-"Do you still have arguments over these evenings?," eager to know how my companion considers the nights.
-"She stopped complaining some time back. Everything is still inside now," and he left the intoxication room. With the music ceasing, the radio brought the evening to its end, on a brusque note!

Silence of the Night

"Where is the waiting room?" I inquired the station master, who was half-asleep. I realized that nudging him out of his slumber might not be beneficial. Rather, I could invite the spite of a civil servant for disturbing while he was on 'duty'. The station wore a similar look like her caretaker (the station master). Derelict and deserted; except for the few signs of life in form of the tea vendor, a few porters and a stray dog. It was holding on to its charm which existed no more. Its antiquity was being chided by frivolousness. The station master was dressed up all perfect, but his attire was ridden with holes and soiled. Yet he clung to his uniform diligently, trying to save his reputation till the last breath. But both were beyond restoration and it would be only a matter of time when a new order will replace this decay. Modernization has had little consideration of past as it paves way for future, which in itself is uncertain.

 It had been an arduous journey till now and the want of comfort was stronger by the moment. The train was to arrive at 3 o'clock in the morning (the railways need to do something about timings!) and had an hour or two to kill. This was my transit stop towards the city-having to change trains for forward journey to my hometown. Nested in the valley, it used to boast of many places to where I could wander and never be found; where noises ceased to exist, where the winter dew would rest on the leaves and midsummer nights had the stars for company. And then the inevitable happened-I grew up and moved out, to explore a life and own it. Here and there, day and night, roads and lights-your feet takes wherever it feels like, attracted by the next distraction. It has a mind of its own and the heart is mischievous enough in agreeing with, 'let me take you where there's no end, only another beginning', it says. That is how it goes-exhausting the nights at 'waiting rooms' and then off by morning after.

The room was hosting a motley group of tourists-the valley has been a major vacation spot for many years now, which has helped in building the town and its people. But I can't affirm whether the increased presence of humans has done good; maybe to the other humans but to the valley; it still likes its recluse and silence, something you and me cringe at.  We have been habituated to an air of dissonance, emanating from the machines that produce comfort of existence.  Our exterior lives have a planned arrangement of noises- an orchestra of sounds playing everyday in the backdrop while we make a living. Sounds that makes us belief in communication, that there's society made up of our voices. It is beyond fathom to introduce silence in our days. It has a spectral behavior; behaves unnaturally when left to itself. In its company, if forced to, you might hear the conversations within (you), which remains forbidden in spirit. Nightfall would bring out its true shape, growing with the rising darkness and then taking control over the rest of night. We resisted its dictatorship (even though benevolent) and through democratic clamour, noises were restored. It is claimed with a certain truth that now, it is hard to come across a silent breath on the streets.


 The platform suddenly came to life again on the announcement of an incoming train. A few did alight, in the middle of the night. Few moments later, it was the usual dullness all around. The waiting room was in a sleepy state with most passengers dozing when she stepped in. Her appearance reflected the tiredness of journey she had so far, arms laden with luggage and searching for a place to sit. Motioning her towards my seat, I got up. She smilingly accepted the offer without utterance of a word. Once she had a glance of the surroundings, she settled down with a book, cutting off the world, as if there wasn't any sight or sound worthy of interest. Her eyes were fixated on the pages, careful not to venture out of the bound of the letters. Her slender hands, poised on knees, guarding from intruders of the outside world. Those strands of hair did beautifully mask the true appearance, another deliberate attempt in rebutting remarks.I peered into what was visible of her across the room and it felt that hers has been a lone journey, sifting from one place to another. She had herself confined to chains of stillness and her spirit was did not protest. There was silence within her, which was misplaced in this orderly chaos. She knows it all along, doesn't fight it, nor detest it. Such strange was her entrapment which allowed no companion to fill that void with all the noise.

An hour or so had passed and my train was to arrive anytime now. Getting ready to move out towards the platform, I stared for one last time at her, as if trying to bid a proper farewell. All of a sudden, the archaic station master enters the room, and then hurried towards her. He gestured with his hands, trying to explain something. With much difficulty, he got her to understand. She spoke a different language which the master couldn't understand, neither would I. Silent was her voice, which cannot be heard amongst the noises in which I reside. She headed to her platform, her time to leave. The night was almost over and I wished for once that the day after wouldn't be forthcoming.

When the ruins had spoken

-"We're approaching the place it seems"
-"Can't be sure though, can we!"
They paused by the road to confirm the direction. Unfortunately, they we're on the right path. The destination was a few hours ahead of them, on the second right. It has been resting there, without any human interference. Devoid of any human sounds in its confines, it had accepted the silence that befell on it. And as a perfect end to any hermitic life, it was calmly decaying into oblivion.

-"I was mildly hoping that we had lost our way and could head back to city. There would have been an excuse then for not finding."
-"Now we ain't that inadequate, are we! Lets face it, there have been worse situations and we've survived and thrived."
-"Yes and now we're heading to abyss. That place is dead. It's a no man's land I'd say. Do you suppose that even any four-legged creature has stepped foot there!!!"
-"We'll find out, soon enough."

Both fell silent. Occasionally the grass on the sides would sway in the wind rustling against each other, or the meeting of the clouds would cause a thunder. Apart from that, there was no noise on the journey. It was amber when the evening had began. As dusk approached, the sky was smeared with splashes of red on blue canvas. Occasionally, the defiant leaves, who have strayed from the herd would wave and fly by. Their ochreous appearance  and the wind, carrying the fragrance of that distant jasmine, described the prologue for the coming autumn. The silence still intact, was calm and reposed now.
The mansion, or whatever remained of it, stood there, lost in its own memory. However, what stood in front of them was ruins. Night had taken charge of what remained of the day. There was no going back for the evening now. It was decided to look for shelter in the adjoining village. Soon enough, a speck of light, cutting through darkness drew them to its source. The villager was more than happy to have them for a night's meal.

-"What brings you here to this remote village?"
-"We came here in search of something. But darkness darkness fell quickly so we came here, looking for a place to stay."
-"Yes darkness falls quickly here. Ever since they left, it has been darkness all around. People from the village have ventured out to search for brightness..it's very unusual of yours to come searching anything here", her voice, burdened with despair, spoke of the time when the village would be dressed like a bride during the puja, their very own durga puja.
-"Oh it was a sight to behold! For those five days, the whole village would be gathered there, at the palace. shimmering lights, all that glitter and the holy smoke made us feel were in abode, a surreal vision before our eyes, as if god was right there."
-"What happened then..what happened to those who were living there?"
-"You know, it's a home when there are people, otherwise it's just walls. It wasn't only theirs that broke apart, along with the village also fell apart. Sons, daughters and their children: the palace had a noise of its own with which we could relate. Their family and the village began to prosper together till the time when the young ones, those grand kids, toke wings and moved away one autumn. Young birds are the restless lot, eager to fly far and high from their shelter. Sometimes they return back by evening on the branches. This time, they didn't. The elders waited every puja for their return, till they lived within those walls. Death is what remained of that house. The kids have decided to get rid of the last burden and we hear that the place will be sold. Although that shouldn't be surprising-when there is no consideration of human relation, you can't take responsibility for something that doesn't have a voice."
They retired for the night shortly after meal. They would leave by sunrise to get back early to the city. Their host tried to reason, wanting to hold them back till tea. Strangers they might have been, but you tend to rebuild on the ruins of emotions with them, allowing your words to recreate some lost time.

-"Well we did found out who has stepped foot there!"
-"Do we really need to do this. The money could be returned back and claim that this place cannot be sold"
-"Don't let conscience get the better of you now. It's for them to decide what to do, not us."
-"What 'bout your conscience, where is it?"
-"It's in my wallet and says we'll be ruined if we can't get this place sold off. Get some rest now. We'll have to leave early tomorrow."
 They'll head back, put the place on the anvil and the hammer will strike, bringing down the leftover crumbling to the ground. There will be a 'viable' alternative for that place, commercial, scalable, returns and prosperity. Villagers will have a livelihood and Durga Puja will be more grandiose. Story is over. But there will be some voices which remained silent.


   'Aar koto din eibhabe katahobe boloto. Nijer choke nijer bhangon dekha jayna. Ichche hoye karor haath diye nijeke dhongsho koredi.'
   'Dhongsho korlei ki shob shesh hoye jaye boloto. Sheta hoyto manush pare..amra noye. Parbe nijer modhe lukono shob sriti bhenge felte. Aaj jodi amader bhenge fella hoye, jodi ei badir dewal matir shathe miliye dewa hoye, taate ki shob mite jabe.' 
  'Kichu metanor aar ki baki ache-dewaler rong, barandar janalata, chader shidi, uthaner pathor, ghorer mejhe shob kichui aste aste dhose gache. Royegache shudhu oi shomoyetar bojha. Shei haanshi, kaanna, joy-joykar, aanondo, utsav, pujor dhaakh, shonkho, mohaloya theke bijoya obdhi badir anache-kanache koto shobdo.'
  'Jokhon ora choto chilo, shara dupoor chute barache badir modhe. Sondhe hotei utthane eshe porto aarotir shomoye. Dhaaker bajneye neche uttho- ki anondo oder. Protimar dike amon bhabe cheye thakto jano kono manush, shakhat devi dariye ache. Shara badir rong rup palte jeto. Kano, kano aajo mone ache..etodine to bhule jawa uchit. Ora pere galo aar amra pathorer tukro hoyeo bhulte parlamna!'
  'Hoyeto pathor bolei akhono daag roye gache. Notun anondote manusher purono sriti chapa pore jaye, tokhon taake khuje baar kora shohoj noye. Dewaler opor daag katle roye jaye; hajaar baar rong korleo ektu khudle beriye ashbe. Ekdin amader bhangon hobe nishchit, kintu mati te mishe geleo, sritir aasthapon thakbe. Hoyeto etai amader prapti.'

 The ruins thus remain, within us, outside us, around us. Silently, they decay till nothing is left of the past. But they had spoken to us, only we couldn't listen.
  




  

Peddling towards Glory

"The scorching summer, deserted afternoon and a pair of slippers; that's all we needed to spend our vacation. The both of us would ride through the entire town, up and down, in and out. Sometimes, our cycles took us on hidden paths, through the dense and in to the valley". I saw grandpa as he narrated, animated in his speech. His wrinkles gave way for the excitement to appear,  that broken voice of his now sounding childlike.
The journey was a long one, wearing down on my holiday mood. There was blankness outside the window. It seemed like we were passing through endless darkness, a bit whitened by benevolent presence of the moon.  Only my ears could tell there were trees around, maybe it was a forest land. "Could there be bandits lurking in the woods..or maybe some hideous creatures who venture after the sun has gone down. Are we the only ones in this vast stretch of land...", I was being overwhelmed by my imagination, which was regularly fed on fantasy tales. Shifting my attention to the familiar inside, I noticed grandpa staring at me through those bespectacled eyes. He knew the "suffocation and fatigue" a child was undergoing and sympathized with my boredom. It was again his fables which came to my rescue, taking me along on his journeys, as we traversed his heydays.
 It was our regular summer vacation, but this time, my parents chose to visit our ancestral place over the beaches down south. I voiced my disapproval at first but as things usually turn out, was cajoled and coaxed into believing this to be a nice vacation.  And here we were, in this compartment, as the train chugged along, whistling the night away. He beckoned me by his side, preparing himself yet again for another story.
-"Is that the only fun you had, cycling all day long", wondering at what alternative modes of enjoyment my grandpa might have had.
-"That was more than enough to make us feel free; to make us excite; to make us ponder. The town was ours playground  as we cycled past every address, every pillar. There was freedom in the air and victory beneath our feat. Those peddles kept taking us forward, taking our childhood forward, as we stumbled, fell, bruised and got up again. The peddles know how imagination makes a child wander beyond the boundaries. You need to peddle beyond what is seen, what is known."
-"Grandpa, where is your friend now? Does he still live there? We could make a visit to him. A surprise-would be fun".
Some distant lights appeared in view, maybe a station was nearing. The tree-like figures became visible and recognizable. Gradually, the outside gave way to the familiar, erasing any imagination that might have obstructed from seeing the obvious.
-"Many summers passed and we cycled on different paths", his tone turning croaky again, "He chose to guard that town, guarding our childhood and many other memories, while I chose to peddle ahead, peddle towards glory."
-"We sure could visit him..he'll feel nice. We'll find him easily...he's resting at the same spot since ten years; under a stone."
And the train slowly came to a halt.

To, whom it does concern

He gave a long stare at it from a distance as if trying to understand a creature without entering in its territory. You couldn't dismiss his thoughts, neither blame him for being naive in his reaction. He stood there, not knowing how to react; confronting a strange situation which hitherto, had not occurred in thirty-five years of his life.
Every morning, he had set afoot to his shop, set up his paraphernalia and went click, click, click. Some were court orders, some were affidavits, some required a comprehensive knowledge of the law while at times, it was cakewalk. His shop was on the pavement comprising of two stools, one used by him and the other occupied by his beloved old fashioned typewriter. As the city gets up to work, his typewriter gave words to  dissatisfaction of society on paper.  His fingers moved deftly over the key-top while the customers narrated. Every grievance had a unique cost-no two agonies are alike, his father had said. However, he didn't consider passing on the family wisdom and continued to remain at the mercy of the hostel canteen. The table was among the few things possessed by him in the shared accommodation. The evening had already walked past the street lights and the howls of the night could be heard at this time. The stranger lay on the table, waiting to be greeted but that was not to be.
He went about with the daily method of the room, lacking the will to break the monotonicity. You still can't blame him for not showing eagerness at the stranger. We are, when accustomed to a routine existence,  to afraid to venture into any disorder. We may tend to consider frivolous encounters with chaos, but it vaporizes as soon as we step in the morning sun, like the day before. So was the case with him. His day revolved within the clicks of the keys and the noises of complaints lined in queue.
Finally, he came close to it-neatly sealed in white envelope, with his name written on top. The letter waited to be opened. It did occur as to who could have written to him. There were no close acquaintances nor relations which would consider asking his well being. But that thought didn't bother too much to a man who spend days writing letters for others. Although, curiosity regarding the contents did occupy his mind. He was yet to open it, fiddling with it from outside as if trying to figure out what was written from the exterior. 
As he went from word to word, giving the right amount of time to every character in it, an overwhelming sense of happiness seized him. It wasn't a letter actually, rather a note-a stranger who was longing for his visit.

"Aaj onek shahosh kore likchi tomaye. Janina ei shahoshta aaro agey newa uchit chilo kina. Shothik shomoyer bichar kora hoyni etodin. Aar etao bichar korini je ei shahosher ki protidan pabo. Kintu ami jani je tomar chilo. Aar ei ashar opor bhor kore bolchi-tumi esho."

He went over his memory, trying to recollect that person who has been longing to see him, to feel his presence so earnestly. It was critical now to seek this person out, who has remembered him, made him feel belonged, create ripples in his heart. Next morning, people had lined up with their usual grievances and he was there as usual; click, click, click.

Bookmark

The evening dust had started to settle on the verandah. Indications of a winter pour were imminent in the weather. If one tried hard enough, you could see the clouds engaged in frolic as children do, making a game out of anything, even the space between them. As I drifted to the sight on ground, there too, was a game in progress. This had to be played by rules and penalties were high. There was life on the streets and solitude in the sky and in the verandah was me, perched in between.
Glancing at the inside, as the shadows took over the walls, I brought the book outside into dusk. It was the only worthy object in that entire room laden with my belongings. I don't know what made me pick it up; it had been lying at its designated corner rack without any clamor. Later I noticed, it was the only one with a bookmark sticking out, rest others had been read and laid to rest. 'This bookmark needs to justified for its wait...lets get the remaining pages to their end', I thought. Passing through the words, line after line, my mind conveniently drifted away from the contents of the page to the more crucial question of why was the bookmark here, stuck between the greying pages.
Page 247-My reading had stopped here (fifth chapter). Picking the bookmark up, I happened to notice some amount of scribbling on it. Renewing my focus on the book, I tried to make sense of what was written. However, after some struggle, I had to give up. There was nothing on that page that could hold the interest of an ardent reader. Then why was it here, with all other things, with a bookmark, left unfinished. How did I reach till page 247 then? What brought me here? Was it someone else's doing then? Could it be that I'm forgetting someone who had accompanied me till this page and then left? I turned over to the writings on the bookmark-there were random amount figures, some reminder notes and a mathematical equation. 'This bookmark surely has come a long way', I said.
Page 139-Tracing back my steps, I stopped here. There was nothing significant on this page, except what was written on its corner. "Could we meet in the evening...at the university canteen?". The canteen was a special feature of the campus-situated in north corner, tucked under the banyan tree. Students frequented 'Chacha's stall' at the front gate. That's because we could avail that special tea and rusk on credit. Usually our accounts ran for months, sipping in glory all the while. On that particular evening, thankfully, my wallet was not completely barren. She was already there, a smile under the shadow of the leaves. 'That's a horribly awful book you're reading,' she said.
'It belongs to my roommate. And I must say, it has found a purpose today,' I tried to look into her eyes. They were still, like the leaves above, calm and poised. That evening, I wished there could be endless cups of tea, but there was no credit here.
 Page 76-Recounting many of such evenings, I went back further into those days when finding a shade was easy. Where you could sit and listen, and let the birds do the talking. Let the wind remind you of your presence. You could flip trough pages, or let them be where they were, unmindful of their existence. Another evening I stumbled upon was on this page. It had been cloudy since afternoon. The heat was becoming unbearable; a rain spell was immediately required. Climbing the stairs to my room, I imagined sinking myself into the rickety bed with the fan at full speed. But that was not to be. Power cuts was a regular feature during summer and I couldn't escape its wrath that day. After a while, I heard a thunderclap and it started to pour. Along with the wind in its company, the monsoon had declared its arrival in the city. My roommate entered, half drenched. 'This is not the time to be inside. Come, lets be children for sometime' and he carried me outside. On the street, we both were behaving like lunatics caught under a spell. Dancing under the first rain brings out the innocence of the prime, which, just like the first drops, is pure.
He was making a paper boat, I hadn't noticed. Handing it over to me he said, 'Lets sail to freedom today.'. And I let that boat flow, watching it pass into oblivion down the drains. That paper boat was from this page.

I stopped and looked around. It was dark now, both inside and outside. I placed the bookmark back at its designated place. Placing it back in the rack, I went inside. The remaining pages will never reach an end-he thought. Some journeys need a "bookmark", to remind you of whereabouts, your existence.

Possessions

A motley group of relatives had gathered in the hall, taking their respective places of mourning. Sorrow was filled to the brim and it looked to overflow from the eyes. People couldn't exchange pleasantries, at least not when there was a state of mourning. Everybody had come prepared for this solemn occasion in acute manner without even missing out on the fine print. They couldn't afford to wear a lax attitude to his funeral; even after death, he commanded the utmost respect.
Such was his stature that people obeyed his words and followed his path blindly. He was a man of influence and effluence who didn't settle for the second best in life. The news was not shocking, his demise was long due, as people said in whispers. He too was past his prime and thus longed to die a death of significance while 'you're still there', as he used to say in clamor. People had already started to murmur his biography during the ceremony. Some eulogizing him from his youth, some narrating their personal interactions, some passing down anecdotes they came to know from him and other similar other forms of drab praises added to the required amount of sulking in the environment around. However, none of this mattered to her.

She stood with folded hands, greeting the guests and thanking them for the presence at this hour. Her ears had by now become deaf to the condolences pouring in. She wanted it no more-none of those words were of any good. There was a state of anger and resentment inside, much unlike the state outside her. it was not as if her loss was any less than anybody else concerned, neither was she any less filled with remorse. But that was not enough to stop her indignation. Leaving those sorrowful faces at his son's responsibility, she shut inside, to listen herself clearly. Her anger burst into tears, incessant tears.
-"What did I possess to loose any? Why do I feel having no possession of him all this time?", she kept asking this repeatedly to the woman in the mirror. Those eyes kept searching for an answer through the naked soul but it remained numb. There was no significant presence of him in her heart. Why was it bereft of anything- either love or hatred for that person who's outside, waiting to be cremated. What has he left behind, apart from some materialistic comforts. Where is the memory of his warmth, that she valued the most.
The exhaustion of this search put her to sleep.
-"Mother, everybody has left. Wake-up,"
She stared at him, wishing to thank him for giving birth to a mother in her, but couldn't.
-"There's something..this is for you. He had asked me to hand it over to you; said it contained his valuable possessions."
She wondered what it could be. It was a wooden box of petite size. Handing it over, her son left, leaving her in the company of that box and its contents. She fiddled with it for a while, pondering over its contents. When opened, she was greeted by a letter. It was addressed to her in his writing.
"Dear,
   My life has been like this box-empty. I've tried time and time over to fill it with valuable possessions wondering what would be the ultimate possession. Those attempts might have taken me to certain heights, but still the box couldn't be filled. Nothing seemed to fit in. Upon nearing the end of days, I realized that I had no count of those days. I felt hollow within even after all the achievements that was wanted. 
   You, was what I needed. You were there with me, but not within. You were there behind me, but not beside. You're a dutiful wife, but I couldn't make you my companion. I didn't have the courage to ask myself what wrong was committed. Every time I looked at you, it showed my failure. And this drove me further away, I couldn't accept my failure. 
   Your crying, ain't you? One day, trying to go far back in distant past, I stumbled upon a face. It was bathing in winter sun, blooming bright with innocence. One evening, I got hold of my nerves and asked her if she would like to walk with me till that crossing. She ended up walking for my entire life but somewhere, I turned at the crossing. 
   This box is the only possession I could give. Do you remember that man who spent his entire pocket money to gift bangles? It was me."
   Her possessions are now safe inside the box, forever.