The Missing feeling

The very next moment, when I turned my back it went missing. A precious one and my heart sank. It was tiny but too important to miss. I went on a massive manhunt. Scanned every possible corner that I could think of but without any success.
This was my cherished companion of last two years and obviously difficult to let go off. It was my constant partner in good and bad days. My only solace among the phirangi dazzle. One I could never thought of ever parting ways with. But strangely it went missing today.
My heart ached that I lost it not in some foreign country but a country I was born in. When I had held it so tightly over the years and travelled together over the seas, how could I be so careless to let it go at the familiar surroundings of my home? I just couldn’t stop blaming myself. How could I? Especially when I know that it is too vulnerable to hold its ground strong.
I was on the edge of going into a depression after losing a loved one. And about to shed tears in grief. Just then something happened. I caught a glimpse of it lying timidly on the floor, battered yet trying to hold strong. I quickly lifted it with all the tender care. Cleaning it and blabbering few words of affection. Placed it carefully at the place it was meant to be. Instantly, my nose glowed with its glimmering shine. After all it is my nose pin, that too, not an ordinary one. It is a rock called Diamond.
And whoever said “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend” perhaps exactly meant what I felt that time. I prayed and my prayers read “till death do us apart”.



Pic Courtesy: Google Images

The Bong Factor

It’s the Bengali New Year today. Wishes come pouring in and nothing is complete in the Bong culture without food and music. Not to forget the good old aada with friends.
Although I have been raised outside Bengal but my roots are intact, courtesy the parenting of my folks. They ensured we spoke Bangla and nothing else at home. They developed my taste for authentic Bengali cuisine and an immense hunger for Bengali literature. To top it all, the exposure to Tagore songs at an early age, though, honestly I couldn’t understand Him much then. But with every passing age, I kept on falling in love with this great man whom words fail to describe. I often wonder how could somebody relate to your deeper emotions and pen it down so perfectly that he becomes an integral part of your very existence. The pain of my first heartbreak, the soft caress of the first monsoon of my womanhood, the sweet pain of love, the sadness of betrayal...you name it and this great genius has it with a haunting beauty that never ceases to leave your side. My non-bong circle would never know what they are missing and to this my heart goes out especially for the women because no other man I have known who could understand women so well. Ah! Hope language didn’t come as a barrier.
My outside-Bengal upbringing has made me a cosmopolitan. Yet, sometimes I do get to hear, “You still are a bong no matter wherever you’re from”. So here’s to my bong-ness, the things which make one:
• My huge eyes with which I can petrify you and one feature which is universal in bong-women (atleast most that I’ve met)
• My addiction to speaking my mind, even when not asked for, I still love to put my point of view which usually isn’t popular and runs me to trouble
• I am not the fish-curry types but there are days when my craving for it makes me travel far in search of fish, immediately head to the kitchen with fish in hand, cook it and eat it with such impatience as if the world is going to come to an end (mind you I don’t even go to the loo till I complete this ritual at the least number of breaths)
• The constant bathroom singing which my neighbours dread and yet I don’t stop humming the Tagore numbers (even if the lyrics can offend any pakka Bangali or Mr. Tagore might come down to punish me)
• The calculations and planning of outfits to wear during the Pujo days for months before. Saving the new dresses to wear in the mornings and evenings of Durga Pujo. The sudden plunge to wear sarees during those special days with matching accessories. And mind you nothing should repeat. The emptiness when Maa Durga goes back with Doshomi celebrations. The moist eyes bids farewell to Her as if She is a part of the family to be seen only in the next year.
• A funny nickname which means nothing. Weird to sound but I respond to it instantly when called from anywhere in the world.
• My strong affiliation to rice (bhaat). Whether I diet or die, I need rice atleast once a meal. I can eat rice with anything and everything. I need no reason or season to eat rice.
• My attraction towards people who are intellectual rather flashy. People who speak well and read well. I always liked people who made a lot of sense though I fail to make sense at times. My partiality towards the big jhola, spectacle and 100% cotton look.
• My love for Rabindranath, Sharad Chandra, Satyajit which makes me keep coming back to them.
• My aversion to the winters and the tendency to layer myself with clothes to beat the cold. I would have worn a monkey cap (the signature bong look) had there been no peer pressure.
• My hunger to save money and keep going for trips to lesser known destinations. Even you would agree that no matter which part of the world you go, you will always see a Bong.

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

Have you seen Her?

The long tresses caressed her face just like the clouds holding the moon tightly in its arms, making her more desirable and irresistible. The dark eyes are an invitation to take a dip, deep down. Yet, something about her wasn’t worldly.
It was well past the time when women would dread being out (courtesy crime rates scoring high). And he was returning from work, tired after the long day. Tomorrow too didn’t look any different. Work was sitting in the pipeline already. Life had gained such monotony in the recent times that he had to fight hard to earn the regular sleep hours.
And today sleep was catching up fast. He was struggling behind the wheels to keep himself awake. The accident happened right then. Before he could realize and press the brake, she came right in front of the car. The car took its time to recover and climbed the pedestal with a huge lump in the bumper. He knew from the sound and sleep was too shaken to bring him back to his full consciousness.
He got out of the car to scrutinize the damage. The bumper was badly hurt to which he had an idea from the experience of long years of driving. But what he feared most was the damage caused to the human figure that had hit upon the car. He found her sitting on the pavement. “Are you all right?” he enquired and offered to take her to the hospital.
She looked back and nodded her head in negative. Her face had a weird appeal that left him speechless. Few conversations later, he heaved a sigh of relief in the knowledge that she was unhurt. The hours were too oddly to leave a lady on the street and he offered to drop her. To this she readily agreed and together they went on with the journey.
He tried hard to have a close look at her but something just came in his way and after a point he gave up trying. All he could see was that she was a woman of great allure. A woman who had a unique charm yet a certain grace that secludes her. She was distant and relaxed without any hesitation of travelling with a stranger. Though he never had any intention of causing trouble to her after such a lucky escape but it was strange for a woman to be so composed and oblivious to the situation. Not for a second she looked unnerved or shocked by the mishap. Rather she was as calm and engrossed in her beautiful world.
They hardly spoke to each other inside the car. She kept looking out avoiding his gaze and he concentrated on the road, too awake from the jolt. The mounting bill on repairing the bumper occupied most of his thoughts. The insurance won’t cover the damage and he was calculating the expenses already. Thank God! The casualties didn’t surmount any human injury or a police case. Next time, he would be more careful he pledged.
Right in the middle of nowhere, his co-traveller asked him to stop. He was lost in this own thoughts so didn’t hear her first. When she repeated again he couldn’t help but ask, “Here but why? I don’t see anyone.” She replied coolly, “Yes I know you can’t see but I can see my friends here. So please stop.”
Her voice had a sudden authority that made him to stop. She got out and thanked him. He asked her again, “Are you sure because I don’t see a life?” She smiled back, “Offcourse I am sure. And you’re right. It’s natural to not see something that doesn’t have a life. So have a great life till the time you have one because once you’re dead you’ll go unseen like us.”
She walked and disappeared into the darkness from where she had emerged. He couldn’t feel a thing and his mind went blank. If she were what she told him, shouldn’t he be very scared?
Years later, he hasn’t changed his job, neither the route. Nor does the oddly hours leave him aside. But his eyes keep searching for her whenever he passes by.

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

It's never easy to forget

The couple in happier times


Love comes at a price. Sometimes at the cost of your life. Experiences have taught most of us and those who are living in denial “Heard of Nitish Katara?”
Justice in his case was delayed but not denied whether it was just is a debatable issue to which I don’t intend to join. While we don’t spare a minute in expressing our disgust over the tragic end, we also don’t lose a minute in criticizing his ladylove. The love that betrayed him at the time he needed her to testify.
She is a part of India where being a woman itself is a life sentence. Where education is nothing more than an accessory to attract better prospects in the marriage market. Where it is fashionable to have wives who are tuned to spend most of their days in the kitchen and nights welcoming the husband with legs apart whenever he pleases. In between her busyness, she also has to deliver an heir to the family who has to be a son and till the time her goal is achieved she either keeps producing like a manufacturing unit or the husband marries more. And whatever time is left, she does have to impress the guests with her hospitality that includes few (easy to understand) English conversations.
Let us admit that such India does exist, even today. Unfortunately, that India isn’t too far from us. And the lady here is a part of that India. She is a victim herself with unsaid trauma that we would never get to know. Not only has she lost her love but forced to lose her voice too. Betrayed by her own people, she has lost the most precious possession of life – freedom.
Her denial to even acknowledge her relationship with Nitish was hard to take. But how hard it must have been to continue living without a thought about the lost love? The slightest of upheaval scars us for lives and our memory gets too stubborn in erasing those. Can she ever erase the memory of the end of her love story under such brutal circumstances? Not a day in her life would have passed without remembering him and her helpless situation to bring justice to herself. Because what was committed wasn’t just against the Katarias, a particular Yadav too was made to suffer. The silence and haunting loneliness in her eyes would have spoken, if they could.
Life couldn’t have been any same for her. Nitish must have been the hope for her. The hope of things better to come. The hope of freedom from a society that kills her before her birth. The brutal end would have killed her in ways more than eyes could meet.
Wish she had a mother like Nitish’s. A mother who would teach her to fight and give her an indomitable spirit. Isn’t it strange that India is a country of paradoxes? The same country where a woman’s sheer grit and determination booked the powerful culprits for life. While on the other hand, another woman was forced into silence without even given an opportunity to grieve at her loss.

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

Not for SALE

It’s hot and getting hotter. Men wait to get heated up with anticipation of the fairer sex shedding clothes and displaying curves. Women are delighted with Season End Sales. Now, the love of SALE is legendary among my tribe. And how can you blame us? After all we do it for you. And no matter how much men crib they still eye at the summer fashion. So who cares as long as you enjoy and we love it too.
But the scary part is that SALE is at the brink of losing its sheen. Unlike yesteryears, Sales last almost all throughout the year. From occasional goodies you love to indulge, they have now become the inevitable sweets running the risk of adding weights. Loading the wardrobe, unloading the cash and cramping your space-even women are beginning to loathe them. Wouldn’t that be the end of shopping?
Remember how we loved the word and would crowd the shops to soak in the heavenly bliss? Because they were such few in numbers and their arrivals were less frequent, we celebrated. Sadly, now the word doesn’t hold the same charm. All days are for SALE in this age of super consumerism. It doesn’t fall on an occasion or holiday or season change. Else, who could have thought of weekend sale? Come on, aren’t there enough chores to finish on a weekend that you need one more errand to run and shop. And even if you do get tempted, all you get to see is redundant stock with the hideous word “UPTO” to grieve further. If you still manage to pull out something worth a try, how would you brave out the long queues outside the trial rooms? Look carefully, most people are as disappointed as you and are doing exactly as what you do. Try clothes and more clothes till you get tired and at last throw them in the baskets lying outside the trial rooms. Babies cry and men get crankier. Women get disheartened and tired. So it is a no win situation for anyone.
Companies need to wake up to the growing threat in the popularity of Sale. Sale is a woman’s best friend much more than diamonds. Even best friends give you space to relax and time to be on your own. So for the friendship to continue, SALE shouldn’t barge so often. And disturb the financial status or create rifts in other relationships with no-space to fit in the homes we live.
For men, no need to be happy on be rescued from accompanying your women to sale. Just imagine what the world would be if women don’t feel the urge to buy new outfits and the etceteras to dress well. What would you look at? Boring plain Janes?

Pic Courtesy: Google Images