RIP Pijush Ganguly

What is life but a fickle fantasy
A chance encounter
A present on its way
To become a memory?

Walking through the Bylanes of Memory

As the S9 bus started to grate its way through the pebbled road, the roar of its ancient engines deafened me. An unknowing smile lit up my face. Of course. How could I forget the 5 years of riding through noise to the university? It was the same bus, the new ones they had purchased 7 years ago. Even the passengers were the same. I recognised the conductor.

A shy lad looking to learn the ropes of a government job, he had first joined the service around 2007. I had noticed him instantly; he stood out, a quiet, humble voice amidst rowdy conductors. But today, as he went about the rows of passenger seats, his brazen attitude made me realise that he had after all, become a pro. He walked towards me, a little heavy-set (as are most Bengali men), wearing the same moustache and good-boy haircut (another Bengali specialty) I had first seen him sport almost 7 years ago.

'Ticket?' He asked, betraying no signs of recognising me.
I immediately handed him a 100-rupee note, being the first in a long line of passengers to do so. If you have been to Kolkata, you know how difficult it is to get a change for Rs.100 here. It occurred to me how easily I had asked for change of 500-rupee notes from auto rickshaw drivers in Gurgaon.

'Jadavpur, toh?' He looked at me, as I handed him the note. I looked up at him and smiled. He had after all, recognised me. I sat behind the driver's seat, watching the green plains of the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass give way to luxury high-rises. The metro plan that had been on hold since 2006. The traffic jam. Everything was the same. How was it, that the conductor was in the same post for over 7 years? Didn't he want anything more from life? How was he happy?

As the bus inched towards my university, he came back with the change. I had never spoken to him before.

'Bhalo achhen? (Are you well?)', I asked him as he handed me the change.

He looked at me, surprised. Generally, passengers aboard public buses only speak to conductors to either ask for some change or to halt the bus between stations.

Embarrassed, he smiled and mumbled a, 'Ei cholche (It's going alright)', and rushed to the bus door to reprimand the passengers who were trying to get off in the middle of a traffic jam.

I got off and walked through the smoky 8B bus stand and into the crowded lane filled with food stalls, mobile recharge shops and Xerox counters. The lanes where I had spent 5 valuable years of my life. Everything was the same, even the people. There had been no change in this part of town, except in the number of food items that had increased to include more delectable fares like momos and chicken pakodas.

As their heavenly smell hung in the air interspersed with smog, I inhaled deeply. Not everyone wanted to be part of a rat race. Perhaps, the biggest ambition some had was to come home to two square meals a day and a loving family. And that was okay.

I met my friend, and to my surprise, she hadn't changed at all. Still petite and crazy, she entertained me for hours. We chatted about life, our old classmates and the university. As I boarded the returning bus from 8B, who else should be there but the driver-conductor duo from the morning! Some things never change.

As the citylights kissed the dark Kolkata sky, I realised the biggest complaint one had against this city was also perhaps, its biggest strength. Kolkata didn't have ambition, they said. And that's okay. Perhaps, it was fine just the way it was.

The Smell of Home

The warm tap water smelled like home. It reminded her of wintry mornings when her mother would painstakingly heat up buckets of water for her. They didn't have a geyser. All they had was each other.

The misty mirror hid the emotion on her face. Suddenly, the weather seemed less cold. The warm water smelled like Maa.

Rite of Passage

The rite of passage was imminent; it was time for her to finally become a woman. Clutching the bottle with fear and anticipation, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then sprayed with all her might.

10 minutes later, her prize lay quivering on the floor. She smiled. Her first dead cockroach.

Addicted

She: I don't know what to do, doctor..
Therapist: Well, how does that make you feel?
She: I don't...know. It makes me feel happy, alive, on top of the world. All sadness vanishes... It makes me feel..high.
Therapist: That's a good thing, isn't it?
She: Initially it feels good, but then I'm consumed with guilt. It's wrong, just wrong and I can't stop it. Help me Doctor, please!
Therapist:....
She: I'm addicted! To KFC.

Retirement

Trampled upon, worn out and torn apart, they gave Boss the best years of their lives only to be replaced unceremoniously by a dapper younger team. 

Heartbroken yet free, the pair of old leather shoes decided to embark on a new journey of self discovery, to see the world alone and for the first time, without a master.

Stars Below

Twinkling stars
Travelling stars
Static stars
Halogen stars
A starry town comes to life 
At night.
Hopes and dreams
Lend their wings
As this town softly glows.
As I watch this sleepy town come to life
14000 feet below.

Endless Wait

'You never came back', she looked at him longingly.
'I had to take off', he mumbled.
'How..how could you not feel what I feel? Last night when we were one, when you saw through my dreams and insecurities, when you made me feel loved, did you not feel any of that?'
'Sara', he stopped her. 'Last night was 2 years ago'.

Noise

Clobbering utensils
Like the high school bell
Ring in my head.
One after the other and another
The cacophony continues.
The Universe expands
A man shouts, a child cries.
Somewhere, my sleep dies.
A mother begins singing
The child joins in.
Mellow laughter
Interspersed with utensil-smashing
The only way to get some peace,
Is to go deaf.

Loving in Oblivion

Seems like yesterday

I was a kid growing up.

I said 'I love you' hoping against hope.

And you said nicely, 'Thank you'.

Through the tears I laughed.

You were funny alright.

And I had thought we'd be just fine.

Damn free will, I smiled.

What had I hoped for, after all?

Then my best friend, my confidant

Fled up the farthest wall,

When I told him it made me jealous

That he got involved with another girl.

Other men I have liked, 

But dared not express.

My affection comes off as rudeness

As I die to escape.

Their gaze.

Their presence.

Their very touch.

The sound of their voice.

It just gets lonely here sometimes.

Lonely and terribly cold.

I hope I don't stumble into the darkness,

I have worked so hard to be free from.

Because the darkness, it unleashes

The demon I shelter inside.

Evening Breeze

The warm evening breeze kissed me fondly, like the memories of first love. The leaves whispered restlessly as the streetlights muted to a dim glow. My heart began humming a distant melody. Evenings like these made me want to dance in the street, without a care in the world.

Then, three men sprang up from the corner of my set, and jumped up to pee by the side of a house. So much so for a romantic evening.

Silence

2 am. Suddenly lights go off, voices go up, darkness breaks out.

A deafening roar blocks my ears. 

I can't sit, can't hear myself think, let alone play Candy Crush. I start pacing round the dark room, then the building, hoping something, anything will stop the monotonous rumbling. But the noise gets louder every instant. Until suddenly, the ventilator starts bursting again and the TV resumes blaring. Thank Heavens, the noise in my ears has died.

2 minutes later, it's dark again, and the noise is back. 

I sit on my bed, eyes closed, trying to shut the noise out with all might. 
Dammit, who knew silence could be so loud?

Meeting the Past on the way Home

Late one night, I found the past roaming idly in the quiet corners of a deserted street. 'Hey, so long!', I called out. Flicking away the embers of a dying cigarette, it looked up and asked, visibly surprised, 'You..what're you doing here..?' 
'Just passing through', I smiled. As you were too, through my life. 'Wow...you look..different. Let's catch up sometime', it softly suggested, voice filled with surprise and candour. 'Sure, why not', I smiled and moved on. 

The aloof, unforgiving past had forgotten it could never catch up to the present.

The Sing-Song Virus

There's a dangerous virus doing the rounds of wintry North India. Deadlier than the Dengue, more contagious than the cold, it will strike you when you least expect it. It spreads by air and prolonged contact with those infected. Till now, prevention is the only cure. But patients show no outward symptoms, thus making it difficult to quarantine them. Except one thing. If you find a loved one humming a Honey Singh number, beware. Maintain a minimum of 5 feet distance, use ear plugs and contact the nearest government asylum. Or you could be next.

P.S: Status inspired after I caught myself humming a Singh-song unawares. :-/

The Chirp

I tried to call out to her but with the straw sticking out of my mouth, only a muffled sound came out. Where was she? I saw an eagle flying in the distance. Wings outstretched, it spiralled round and round, reminding me of the poem by Mr. Yeats. 'Darling, can you hear me?' I finally chirped aloud, causing to drop the straw. Oh boy, the nest will just have to wait, I mused as I flew to a nearby pole.

I hate rains

Rain makes me sad. 
It reminds me of afternoon drizzles by the window; when droplets of creativity played in puddles in the rigorous Math copy.
When every bit of lecherous mud was avoided with trepidation. Sometimes unsuccessfully.
The waterlogged moments of love. Unspoken yet immortalized in words.
The congested umbrellas in shuttle taxis gasping under strangers' sweat and rain water. Or perhaps, they were crying. 
The heart is, but a mausoleum of memories. Rain washes down its strong walls to reveal the undergrowth within.
I hate rains.

Sunny Side

As her sizzling aroma danced on my tongue, I got transported to seventh heaven. That coy diva, in white with pale yellow lace, playing cello on my heartstrings! So deliciously petite yet flagrantly elusive, you could not have enough of her. As I looked into the omelette, charmed by her beauty and fragrance, she smiled back saying, 'Eat me, eat me!'. 

Enraptured I stared, as suddenly a burlesque hand turned the end of her lacy yellow to one side. 'No, no', I screamed, but the sooty palm turned her on her back once again. It felt deep within its pockets and brought out a sad 10-rupee note. After that exchanged hands, the greasy devil began the task of defiling the gentle queen once again. The steel plate hissed, as her cries of help turned hoarse. Ordeal over, her voice gone, the brute then cut her to tiny pieces and held them out on a plate saying, ‘20 Rupees, please'. My melancholy picked up her pieces and set adrift, munching morosely.

On Occasion

As I stand lazily soaking in the winter sun, I see a monkey in the distant roof, doing the same. A closer inspection reveals a Ma monkey followed by one-two baby monkeys, with another monkey chilling in someone's balcony. 'Hee...bador bador', I gleefully observe. The Ma monkey then climbs down the grill, just like Spiderman. The young ones follow suit to join their Chacha (I'm guessing) in the neighbouring balcony.

Still giggling, I come down the stairs to find a wolf strolling about, in the guise of a dog. It seems to have enough fur to shield the neighbourhood for the winter. I share biscuits with the dumb blackie but those 5 biscuits vanish before hitting the floor. Finding I have no more biscuits to offer, it now decides to settle for the next best thing.

It begins to wag its bushy tail, I pat it a little. Two pats, and the wolf seeks to climb till my shoulder, like a chipku guy. 'Durey thako, durey thako', I order the wolf which probably weighs more than me. It calms down but still keeps on looking through the iron grills long after I have closed the gate.

I go back to shoot the monkeys on the roof but they have long since vanished. So I shoot the next best thing: Myself.

Gurgaon is a chiriyakhana. I like it.

5:30 am

5:30 am- That unearthly hour that marks the short interval between the dying echoes of night and the first whispers of dawn.

5:30 am- That whimsical muse who whistles away at the last few hours of a person's sleep; him desperate to finish the dream before reality faces him, once again.

On such a 5:30 am today morning, I decided to go for a walk.

Yes, me. The nightcrawler, the sun-hater.

I can't remember waking up so early except while catching trains.

And that one time, I climbed a mountain (or was it a hill?) in Rajasthan. I was very small, so even a hill seemed Mt. Everest to me. And how proud I was when I climbed it before the elders, right at the speck of dawn. I got a pack of Uncle Chips as reward. Something about the chips tasted even finer, I tell you. 

And now this. 

Another of my attempts at something new and different in the last 4 months.

Being healthy? Nah. The early bird? You're preaching to the owl.

And as the last shadows of night kissed the earth goodbye, we began walking. Talking, laughing, discussing everything and more, this bunch of crazies walked playfully. Shivering in the cold, I followed them first. Then, irritated at the slow walking, I began pacing fast. And faster. The way I usually walk. Like I was in a walk-a-thon. Walking under the sky, amidst the shrubbery, looking at the 18 to 40-year olds who had also gathered. To play, to walk. Who wakes up so early?

The early bird. The milkman. The driver. The working man and woman. The sun, for God's sake.

Certainly not me.

I liked walking with you today, Dawn. I hope to do more. But I am bad with promises. And as long as nothing's defined, it's still full of potential, innit? Pregnant with hope. So let's just keep it that way.

May be we will meet again. May be not.

Tussle

My head hurts. The wall I have been banging it into for the past few weeks, refuses to break down. My head's strong. It refuses to give up. So does the wall. 

It's not pretty being sandwiched between an inanimate wall and an overanimated brain. I try coaxing it into finding another way, a better way. Something that doesn't involve me taking a bunch of painkillers. 

Climb it, perhaps? Fly over it? My head, like a tunnelvisioned bull, refuses to listen. Climbing takes time. Flying requires wings. 

"I know, I know, but do you think you can just stop before you break your bones?" I say gently, with a slight hint of indignation.

"There are no bones in the brain, you idiot", my brain hisses nastily, as it collides with the wall again.

"C'mon, I meant the cranium..you are breaking it!" I retort desperately. "Anyway, why are you so angry? I thought the brain was supposed to be the calm reasonable voice. Being emotional is the heart's job". 

"Try hitting yourself repeatedly and see what it does to a calm rational voice", it mocks me.

"Well...hello!" I put out my hands, in exasperation. "Clearly, this pain is making you dumb. Maybe, if you'd just listen to me for a while.."

"Why don't you try telling your heart that? How many times have I told it that ideas don't like to be pushed out? If you've hit a block, try finding another route. But, it never listens." My brain desperately shouts the last words as it crashes into the wall.

Bang, bang. Bang!

"Ok, enough. Everyone listen. Brain, for the love of everything rational, STOP! Heart, what the hell is going on?" I cry, exasperated. The pain was becoming too much.

"I will overcome this. I will, I will. Nobody, nothing is going to stop me. I will overcome writer's block", my heart speaks breathlessly, for the first time.

"Stop..stop. You are killing us. Look, may be if you just took a break...". My eyes start to go blind.

"You won't stop me. I will overcome this block, I will keep on busting my head, till it breaks down..."

"The head or the wall?" I gasp one last witty reply as the world closes in on me.