Loser

                               The morning was beautiful. It had rained last night. The raindrops hanging from the leaves sparkled like diamonds in the sunlit morning. Trisha had just sat down to have her morning coffee when her phone rang. It was Sudhir.

‘Okay, I’ll be there at five in the evening’, she said as she kept down the phone.

                             Sudhir had been Trisha’s friend for a long time. He had felt a certain interest in Trisha from the very first day he had seen her, his new neighbour. Crushes at such young ages were nothing new. Trisha and her family had shifted to Bangalore when she was in class six. Trisha was admitted in the same school that Sudhir attended and now, they were now in the same college too. Though Sudhir was shy in nature, yet they had bonded well.

Sudhir had been pacing up and down the room when Randhir arrived.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Just a little nervous’, answered Sudhir.

‘About what?’

‘I was thinking about confessing my love for Trisha to her.’

Randhir reminded him that she already had a boyfriend.

‘I know. It’s just that he is not the right choice for her’, said Sudhir.

                            Sudhir came back home early that night. As he opened the door, he was surprised to find Randhir seated on the couch. He was skipping through the pages of his favourite magazine, as the light from the lamp fell across his face.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked Sudhir surprised.

‘That is not important. Tell me how did it go, what did she say?’

‘She did not turn up’, said Sudhir rather sadly, trying to force a smile.

                           Sudhir had been waiting for Trisha at the Café for an hour. Seeing that she was late, he had tried calling her. Trilok, Trisha’s boyfriend had picked up his call. Sensing something fishy, Trilok had warned Sudhir and had made it clear that he did not want ‘losers’ like Sudhir to be around Trisha.

‘I can help you with it, if you want’ said Randhir. Sudhir hesitated but later agreed on Randhir’s repeated pestering. From then on, various tricks had been applied to lure Trisha, right from sending flowers and gifts to sending letters, in which he promised his love for her. But nothing helped. Trisha chose Trilok over Sudhir every time and Sudhir had thus almost resigned to the thought of considering himself as a loser. ‘Loser’ - such an abusing term for a boy of his age. He felt ashamed, anger seething in his veins.

                           It was the evening of their farewell party. Sudhir sat in a corner, watching Trisha, dressed in a red gown, enjoying a dance with Trilok. Her hair fell loose over her shoulder, making her look even prettier. Sudhir felt angry. What if Trisha had never met Trilok, he thought. It would have been Sudhir dancing with Trisha today then.

‘You’ve got to do something about it, haven’t you?’ asked Randhir. Sudhir was taken aback by surprise. He had not noticed Randhir’s presence.

‘Come on, follow me’, ordered Randhir.

Sudhir did not quite understand what was happening but nevertheless he followed Randhir, who led him to the backyard of the college. They were following Trilok, who had gone to dig out the hidden bottles of alcohol from underneath the piles of hay and dead leaves.

‘Go on, kill him’, suggested Randhir catching Trilok off guard.

Sudhir did not agree.

‘Come on, do it and show him that you’re not a loser’, insisted Randhir.

‘I can’t’, said Sudhir nervously.

‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it for you.’

Even before Sudhir could say something, Randhir walked straight to Trilok, grabbed a bottle of alcohol from his hands and broke it on Trilok’s head. He fell on the ground unconscious.

‘Stop it!’ cried Sudhir, as he watched Randhir stab Trilok to death with the broken glass bottle.

‘We’ll get caught’ panicked Sudhir.

‘No, we won’t. Just act normal.’ Randhir sounded quite calm. Sudhir was terrified. He ran back to his room. Images of the gruesome crime committed flashed in his mind as he stood staring helplessly at his reflection in the mirror. Just then he noticed blood stains on his T-shirt. It was Randhir who had killed Trilok, yet there were blood stains on his T-shirt. Sudhir was puzzled. Sudhir could not go off to sleep that night. He kept tossing and turning in his bed restlessly. He called up Randhir to tell him that he thought it wise to surrender before the police. But Randhir warned him not to do so.

With the dawn of the next morning, Sudhir went to the police station to confess about the crime committed. Guilt had kept him awake the whole night. He gave the police all details about Randhir and the murder committed.

Next morning, he was called to the police station.

‘Whose phone number is this?’ asked the police inspector.

‘Randhir’s, Sir. I have got his number saved in my phone’, answered Sudhir.

The inspector dialed the number. Sudhir’s phone started to ring. Before Sudhir could say a word, the inspector slapped him across his face and threw him into the prison cell.

The cell was dark, with a dim bulb hanging loose from the ceiling. Sudhir sat in a corner, with folded legs, staring into the ceiling, still confused and unable to figure out what was happening.

‘Were you trying to get me caught by the police? I warned you not to’ said a familiar voice from the dark corner, ‘You’ll always be a loser. Yes, that’s what you are’. It was Randhir.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked puzzled Sudhir. He was supposed to be the only inmate of that cell. ‘You’ll now be hanged for the crime you committed’, said Sudhir nervously as he saw Randhir advance towards him.

‘I’ll kill you before that happens’, said Randhir fiercely, as he leapt upon Sudhir, whom he had caught by the neck and was trying to throttle him to death.

‘Help! He is trying to kill me’, begged Sudhir.

The police stood helplessly and watched Sudhir. They seemed confused as they could not understand why Sudir was trying to throttle himself to death!

Of broken dreams and tobacco

She recalls her wretched life,
           Staring at the sea.
And gasps for air,
           Heavy with stale tobacco and broken dreams .
Her crimson dress has lost its lustre,
           From years of loveless coupling.
The image of an old lover creeps in,
           And memories like cigarette butts lay strewn on the floor.
Bright lipsticks and flowers can't hide the paleness of her eyes,
           As the darkness of the night closes in around her.
She had once dreamt of love,
           Now she gets paid for it.

Exchanged Glances

Closing in the dripping umbrella,
I met your gaze.
For a moment I was taken aback
After all these years...
Could it be true?
I tried to look away and took a seat near the window,
Trying to catch your reflection on the glass.

Is Red still your favorite color,
As it were thirty years before?
Do you still swear on French Revolution?
Are you still the same polemicist,
who could raise a storm with his words on sultry evenings?
Are Dylan's songs still your favorite?

I could still be your Desdemona or Juliet
Or better still - Radha maybe.
Age never seemed a bar for lovers.

You get down the bus, casting a last glance
But nothing changes.
Years down, asphyxiating in the dead society,
We had always promised to change the world
But do we forever remain captured in our indecision,
Wondering like Prufrock- do we dare disturb the universe?

Thirty years it took us to meet again
Maybe it'll take thirty more to meet in heaven.

Unnoticed

You pluck a leaf from the tree without much care,

Just like you force her to abort that girl child,

Thinking it wouldn't cause much pain.

You step carelessly on those daises bordering the pavement,

Just like you ignore that roadside poor hungry boy.

You don’t realize the roles they play.

You try to bonsai the plants,

Just like you try to control every aspect of your child’s life.

It’s for good, you say!

You plucked a frail unnamed flower and tore its leaves, playing a game that only you enjoy,

Just like you mock that boy calling him sissy because he varies from the conventional mainstream
You axe a tree and cause its fall,

Just like you ignore your old parents,

For their purpose is served.

Those axed trees, those unborn children, those unfinished tales – that go unnoticed;

Were all in the scheme of life, you think

Yet, you bring down the night sky on the park street roads;
Burning candles, like twinkling stars in your hand
And rent the air with thundering catchy slogans,
Trying to harmonize the discords
Promising to change the society for better!

Someday

We will meet someday,
Walk together a little while.
Roses and carnations should mark the start,
                    and fancy restaurants would be fine
We could sit in those dimly lit beautiful restaurants,
                   having small talks about things insignificant.
Peppy tunes or soft music could border the background,

Then saunter back hand-in-hand when the day is done.

We met someday,
Quite differently it turned out thus.
Came across him a thousand times,
                   in each stranger's face in the busy Esplanade crowd.
Only resounding cacophony of the city stands as a proof,
                   of those quick short romantic glances exchanged.
Societal divisions, the only wall between us

That we made no efforts to break down.

We will meet again someday
No, roses and carnations wouldn't mark the start.
The crowded city buses
                  shall mark the beginning.
The hawker's song,
                  the only song that'll soothe the ears.
And closing my eyes, I'll imagine a better world
With you by my side.

Those last enigmatic words

                                                  She woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, searched for her hair-clip from under her pillow, tied her hair in a loose bun and set out for the daily household chores. Sleep still lingered on in her eyes making it appear redder than on other days. Yesterday had been a long day at office, followed by a late night office party and therefore she couldn’t get enough sleep.

                          The calendar reminded her that there was a parent-teachers’ meeting today at Sneha’s school. Sneha, her daughter, fifteen now has always held a good academic record much like her mother and was polite and shy in nature. Her teachers never had much complain against her. Meera knew that Sameer, her husband, wouldn’t be able to make it to Sneha’s school today.  He’d have to leave for Kochi today and therefore the responsibility of attending the meeting was on Meera.

                           Meera sat with her morning coffee and the newspaper at the table quickly scanning through all the headlines, when one news article particularly caught her attention. ‘Naxalite leader injured but escapes being caught by the police…’- it said. The news chilled her spine. The Naxalite leader was none other than Niladitya Roy, the boy who had made her heart skip a beat during her college days…that boy with whom she had often imagined life together…that boy who had broken her heart because he chose his dedication to his work above her. Life had been terribly hard after the break-up. Her academics suffered a setback as she could not concentrate on her studies. She still remembered those sleepless nights, when her pillow would be wet with her tears and those long sessions with the psychiatrist. But then life had gradually moved on, as her parents had said it would. She had got a job for herself, got married (albeit her parents had chosen a husband for her), had a child and was raising her in the best possible way she could. In the initial years of her marriage she had often wondered how she would react if she ever came across him. She had often struggled with her own mind in trying to forget him and be happy in her married life, as she had promised to her parents. But the human mind works in strange ways, forgetting things that it should remember and remembering things that it would rather forget.

                         Meera wanted to call him up. She still had his phone number but there were very little chances that he would still retain the same number for twenty-six years. And, moreover, what would Sameer and Sneha think of her if they ever came to know about it? No, she wasn’t supposed to call him up.

                       Meera finished her coffee and kept down the newspaper and was just about to get started with her household works when suddenly her phone started to ring. She checked it. It was Nilanjana, her college friend. She picked up the phone and started chatting with her. They talked about their good old college days, their families, their careers and then just when Meera was about to disconnect the line, Nilanjana asked,’ Meera, do you still remember Nil da?’An awkward silence followed. Meera didn’t know what to say. Nilanjana continued,’…you might remember that I was his cousin…’ Meera had almost forgotten the fact. ‘…he got seriously injured while trying to escape the police and has lost an arm but somehow he managed to escape. He is now at Pishi’s place. He wants to meet you. I think you remember the address, if not I can text it to you…’ No answer came from Meera. ‘Meera? Can you hear me?’ inquired Nilanjana. Meera disconnected the call.

                   ‘Why now? What now?’ thought Meera as the whole world seemed blurred in her teary eyes. She was surprised to find that even after so many years this boy, now a man, could again set her heart amidst a whirlwind of emotions.

                   Sameer left for his work at ten in the morning. He would be back from Kochi almost after a week. Meera had taken a leave from her office that day because the parents-teachers’ meeting was scheduled at twelve in the afternoon. The meeting went well and while returning Meera dropped Sneha off at the Indian Dance Academy for her dance classes. Watching Sneha had always been a pleasure to her eyes and therefore she would often remain present at Sneha’s dance classes, watching her learn. But today something troubled her. She thought of driving back home. Sneha could board a bus to return home, she was a big girl now, Meera thought.

                  On her way back, something (she didn’t know what exactly) forced Meera to drive to Niladitya’s Pishi’s (aunt) place. She knew the address; she had been there many times before. She still remembered all those Narus(sweets) Pishi used to make for her whenever Niladitya and Meera paid a visit to her. Pishi had always told her that she would make the perfect wife for Nil. Meera had always blushed at the thought.

                   Her car stopped before the gate of the once well painted double-storeyed building. The beautiful flower garden that the house once boasted was now gone. Long wild grass had filled up the place making it appear rather haunted. She wouldn’t have recognized the building had she not remembered the house number. She went in and knocked at the door. Pishi opened it. It took her a while to recognize that it was Meera. ‘Come in, my dear’, she said in her usual soft and familiar voice. Pishi led her to Niladitya’s room and left them alone on the pretext that she’ll fetch them something to eat.

                Meera stood still. She was looking at him, while he lay on his bed with his right hand bandaged that had been cut off from the elbows. He looked much different now, his eyes has lost its lustre, his hair had grown white. She didn’t know what to say. The cracks in her heart which she thought had mended with time had started to show again. Each second seemed a constant struggle to fight back the tears. Meera had turned back to leave when Niladitya stopped her. ‘Meera, do you still remember that poem, the one which you used to recite to me so often?’ asked Niladitya.

               Meera didn’t turn back. Poetry was a brilliant way to convey your feelings or thoughts for someone, she had always thought. She was good at reciting poems and had won several prizes at it but had given it up when she broke up with him.

                                    ‘Chaigo ami tomarey chai, tomai ami chai’, continued Niladitya reciting one of her favorite Bengali poems

                                     ‘Ei kothatai shodai mone bolte jeno pai

                                      R ja kichu bashonate, ghure berai dine rate

                                      Miththa, she shob miththa

                                     O go tomai ami chai…’

Tears rolled down her cheek. She didn’t turn back. Instead, she headed towards the door. His words held no more meaning for her… or did it?

Breaking Stereotypes

‘People who think plastering napkins is cheap and vulgar fail to grasp the fact that such a campaign operates with the intention of disturbing and disrupting the aesthetics of politeness and modesty propagated by a patriarchal power structure’, read a post as I was scrolling through my news feed on a social networking site.

                                   Even after reading various articles on how the students of various colleges have taken up this campaign, I still cannot bring myself to quite support this. I support their intention of breaking stereotypes but I am not quite pleased with the way they are doing it. Why stick sanitary napkins all around the campus? I mean, if you were to start a campaign making people aware of the need of contraception, what would you do? Would you go around sticking condoms with written messages on them?

                                 The campaigners are saying that if their way hurts you, then it is purposely meant to do so. Well yes, I agree, there is no need to hide or feel shy about menstruating. But, then there is no need to flaunt about it either!