The Lolita Effect

(March 11, 2015)


In the story I basically wanted to point out the life of an average man, how perverted they are, how inconsequential their lives are, and they live without anybody recognizing them as an individual and they die because of apathy.

He had no need to think that he was immoral belonging to the group of people who believed in the same principles of being a modest average man : spending according to your earning and work hard to earn a living. He called a hundred people everyday of which most screamed and abused him and the rare few asked him to drop by their house to fill the never ending forms.Married happily enough, he even had a son. His legacy of being a nobody would have been continued flawlessly; that was the plan until he saw her. She was beautiful, fragile, nubile and yet so young. She was all of 14 and he of 40.It was a hot summer day in Delhi when it happened. Sweat and humidity stuck to the skin like leeches. The morning had gone by with unsuccessful phone calls to potential abusers. The huge hall that was filled with men like him had a layer of scent of samosa, sweat and fart.

At 3 o'clock a youngish sounding guy agreed to see Anthony if and only if he arrived by 5 o'clock at the other end of town. Anthony had to take the chance, he picked up his dusty briefcase and crammed it with all sorts of proposals and forms for Mr. Harsh to fill. He rushed down to start his old chetak scooter that would take him all the way to Noida from Connaught place. Every evening his wife would poke and prod his wallet before going to the market and finding nothing extra to get any meat for a special meal frustrated her. She would take it out on the maid the next day by squeezing her of all her energy to have a squeaky clean house. Whether it was the lack of dirt or the lack of luxury to accumulate anything, one never knew.Anthony was skimming through the traffic thinking of the new cycle he could buy for his son and a new saree for his wife to wear at the Sunday Mass. He promised God that he would go to the Gospel meeting everyday if he got this client.He was dripping sweat and had stains around his armpits and in the back, he could smell his stench. Being aware of his averageness and futility of the job that haunted him every hour he rang the bell of the house no. 34 while trying to fix his full mane of hair.

His eyes darted downwards when the door opened. There she was with the whitest skin he had ever seen with perfect almond shaped eyes. She was around 5feet he thought. She turned to go away and get someone to the door. She didn't say a word to him, just looked at him and went away. He was surprised to see her gait, her hips swayed like a woman’s but they were much smaller. Not ripe like his wife’s or her mother’s who was standing right in front of him.While sitting on the sofa of the Mathur’s, explaining the pros and cons of the various policies to Mr. Harsh and his wife he could only look around for her. The little angel. He wanted her and he could feel that in his crotch. The more he looked at her mother he was reminded that she was here somewhere in the house, not allowed to come in front of him, being hidden by the parents from the eyes of the strange male. It got so painful for him that he asked to be shown to the washroom. On the way to the washroom he tried getting a glimpse into the rooms and he saw a bit of her legs; bare from her toes to her mid thigh because the skirt she was wearing had risen up while she was lying on the bed on her stomach reading a book.Inside the washroom he felt nauseated and disgusted by himself. This child was only a 14 year old and she was driving his hormones crazy. He splashed water on his face, dried himself carefully while staring intently at himself in the mirror. He was no Catholic but these thoughts made him question the purity of his soul.On the way back home he could only think of the fair skin with tiny dark hair on her legs that looked soft and silky, if only he could touch.Her skin and newly shaped woman’s body haunted him. He spent more hours away from home, from his wife lest she knew what went on in the dark recesses of his mind.The only way to be exorcised of these feelings was to go more often to their house and be immune to her, he realised. It wouldn't be possible he knew unless there were mistakes with documentation. He created the necessity of filling more forms, of forgetting and re-forgetting those forms just to go to their house more frequently. Even with those efforts he could only go twice or thrice in a year.

This gave him inspiration to make it a long term effort before he knew it, he was doing better at work because he knew that in some part of the city the little angel is growing up into a ripe woman and someday he would have her.His colleagues were only more annoyed to see his renewed vigour at work. They had reached an age when one only does enough to get by and yet here was this man making their life miserable. The top boss would crack his whip on others making Anthony the shining example of hard work.Some five years later one morning he was standing in front of the mirror taking particular care for dressing up because he was to visit the Mathur’s today when the blinding veil fell from his eyes and he saw what he was. He had taken care to hide his monstrosity from himself everyday of those five years since he saw her because he knew what darkness lay inside him, what feelings stirred inside him when he saw her but he did not have a single soul to share this with.His colleagues and he did not talk about their wives but their heads turned in the same direction when they saw a beautiful young girl walk by, especially if she was on a young man’s arm. They would scan her from front to behind even judging the lingerie she wore by the lines that would prod out from under the apparels but he never thought that he was a hideous monster then. That girl was hand in hand with a man, she was offering herself up to the world to see her as a desirable object but the little angel was hidden from the world. She wore braids to school; her body was hidden behind oversized t shirts. She had not made her appearance in the public yet, she was not up for grabs yet. The fecundity of her body was only for his eyes.Tucking his shirt into his now protruding belly, he realised, today was the day of action. Their policy had matured and he was going to give them their last document to sign. He would not get another chance to be this close to the little angel again. He was full of trepidation when he arrived. He remembered his first visit to their place when he was full of sweat stains and the only reason he was standing at their doorstep was because he wanted their money.

Today he wanted much more from the Mathur’s.Sitting on the sofa, chatting with Mr. Harsh like it was their last conversation and having him sign the last few documents he sensed that she was not at home. He struck up a conversation with the wife about his son who was in 11th now, studying science aiming to be an engineer the wife responded just like he anticipated about the little angel studying humanities and not being the best student. She wanted to be an actress and had already joined some acting workshops, and he guessed that that is where she was now. He was disappointed to hear that, it was the last visit after all. Soon he took their leave and gloated over never being found out by the parents for what he was. He was reviled at their lack of imagination, for thinking that everyone was like them. Dull. Not long ago he would have thought the same of himself but having found out the propensities within himself to find pleasure in being a voyeur he began to consider himself a breed apart, a connoisseur. With these calming thoughts he was riding his scooter back to the office until he saw her on the back of a boy’s bike. He gave chase; there was nothing else he could have done. She was not far from her home and she was sitting pressed up against a boy’s back drawing circles with her hand on his chest. She had appeared to the public to view without him tasting her. Rage seeped through him and he sped up, at 70 kmph his Chetak was coughing and churning out smoke. He kept speeding, long after they were gone, crossing a red light and finally having his skull spill out on the streets. Nobody knew him, but they crowded around him to berate his dead body for being a rash driver. The car’s owner cursed him under his breath because he would now have to spend years going to and fro from a courthouse in Delhi.

Polaroids

Polaroids.
-------------------------------------
(21st Dec,2016)

Grandmother was a frail word, wrapped in yard length of the softest of sarees,
With tiny flowers printed all over, littering its borders like gulmohar trees shedding flaming red buds across our lawn,every summer.

Grandmother had a few albums of photographs which was a treasure we sought and she kept locked up in a Godrej almirah,
On rare occasions she brought them out, 
We would flock around her and stare at faded polaroids - from a time when women still covered their heads,
And wore blouses with sleeves that reached till their wrists,
In them I found grandmother,
And the realization of how nice a couple they made together dawned on me slowly as I saw their wedding photos,
Along with the album she kept a coconut oil tin;
Inside it were 25 paise coins, exactly a hundred,arranged in a pile.

Grandmother told me her mother-in-law had given to her, 
On the night of her wedding,"Buy something sweet with this", she had said.
The money was never spent, and Grandmother had kept it safe all these years;
"Someday I'll buy something sweet", she said.
And I wanted to tell her,"It did'nt matter anymore, those coins are forgotten relics,
Memories which someone had carried for decades, 
piled in an oil tin, locked inside the Godrej almirah, like treasure".
And I closed her palms around the coins;
"Someday you'll buy something sweet with this", I told her.
And the polaroids smiled back at me, like knew our secret - but had decided to keep it safe.

ইচ্ছে ...

সোনালী ডানার চিলটা যখন নীল আকাশে ঘুরপাক খেতে খেতে দূরে দূরে আরো দূরে মিলিয়ে যেত, অপুর সঙ্গে আমারো বুকের ভেতর একটা অদ্ভুত শিরশিরানি ছড়িয়ে যেত। একটা না বোঝা ব্যথা; কিছু না পেয়েই অনেক কিছু হারানোর অনুভূতি; অপু দাওয়া থেকে নেমে একছুটে গিয়ে সর্বজয়ার গলা জড়িয়ে ধরত , আমিও তাড়াতাড়ি বারান্দা ছেড়ে ঘরে ঢুকে মায়ের হাত থেকে বই কেড়ে নিয়ে কোলে মুখ গুঁজে দিতাম।
সেই অনুভূতিটা এখনো মাঝে মাঝে ফিরে আসে - কেরলের সমুদ্রতটে আজকের অলস সন্ধেতে বসে থাকতে থাকতে দূর দূর অনেক দূরে যখন অন্ধকারে হারিয়ে যাওয়া দিগন্তটা দেখি, অথবা বিকেলের গোধূলি আলোয় পি.জি. এর ছাতে  বসে এক কাপ  কফিতে চুমুক দিতে গিয়ে যখন ওই গাছের ফাঁক থেকে এইচ.এ.এল এর প্লেন সজোরে উড়ে যেতে দেখি, রাত্তিরের তুমুল বিষ্টিতে ধোঁয়া ধোঁয়া স্ট্রিটলাইটের আলোয় ঝাঁ ঝাঁ করে গাড়ির চলে যাওয়া দেখি, অফিসের কাজের মাঝে দশতলার ওপর থেকে কাঁচের মধ্যে দিয়ে নীচে ছড়িয়ে থাকা কাঠখোট্টা ব্যাঙ্গালোর শহরটাকেও যখন ভারী মায়াময় লাগে - সেইসব সময়ে সেই দূরত্বের অনুভূতিটা, সেই বুকের মধ্যের শিরশিরে ভাবটা ফিরে ফিরে আসে।
কিছু কিছু দূরত্ব কক্ষনো কমেনা, ছোঁয়া যায় না সেই দূরের সীমানা। আর কিছু জিনিস হয়ত অধরা থাকাই ভালো।
সব ইচ্ছাই তো আর পরিপূর্ণ হয়না, কিছু কিছু পেয়ে যাওয়া যে সব ফুরিয়ে দেয় -"সব পেলে নষ্ট জীবন" ।

এই শহর

আগেরদিনের ধকল, রাত জাগার ক্লান্তি আর ফ্লাইটের ক্লান্তিকর জার্নি মিলিয়ে চোখ বুজে এসেচিল, হঠাৎ ল্যান্ডিংয়ের অ্যানাউন্সমেন্টটা গাঁকগাঁক করে বেজে উঠল কানের পাশে। ঝিমুনি ভেঙে জানলার পর্দাটা তুলে দিলাম।আর তারপরেই মুগ্ধ হয়ে গেলাম। ভোরের মায়ামায়া আলো মেখে নীচে ছড়িয়ে আছে কলকাতা, আমার কলকাতা। সেই সিসি টু, রাজারহাট-নিউটাউনের আকাশচুম্বী কিছু বিল্ডিং, ইতস্তত ছড়িয়ে থাকা সবুজের টুকরো আর জলের রেখা দেখতে পাই, ফিতের মত রাস্তায় ছুটে চলা পুঁচকে পুঁচকে খেলনাগাড়ি, হাঁ করে দেখতেই থাকলাম। কী আছে কলকাতায়? প্যাচপেচে গরম? বিগড়ে যাওয়া ওয়ার্ক কালচার? ধোঁয়াশা মোড়া আকাশ? না আধা বিউটিফাইড রাস্তাঘাট?

অথবা কীসের অভাব ব্যাঙ্গালোরে? সবই ত ছিল। তবে কী মিস করি? কেন কলকাতা মানেই আমার শহর? ভালবাসা কোন যুক্তি মানেনা বলে বোধহয়!  সেজন্যই যখন কলকাতায় বড় হয়ে ওঠা আমার অবাঙালী বন্ধুরা অন্য শহরের তুলনায় কলকাতার শ্রেষ্ঠত্ব প্রমাণ করতে গলা ফাটায়, আমার বুক গর্বে ভরে ওঠে; যখন আমার দক্ষিণী কলিগরা কলকাতাকে তাচ্ছিল্য করে কিছু বলে, আমার মাথায় আগুন জ্বলে যায়; অথচ আমার নিজের কিছু  অভিযোগ নেই কলকাতা নিয়ে তা তো নয়।

 ঝাঁকুনি দিয়ে প্লেন রানওয়ের মাটি ছুঁল - বাড়ি ফিরলাম যেন; মায়ের কোলের নিরাপত্তার স্পর্শ পেলাম যেন।

প্রতিবার... প্রতিবার এই একই অনুভূতি, প্রতিবার এই বুক ভরে যাওয়া আর প্রতিবারই এই চোখের কোণে একবিন্দু জল; কলকাতা মানে নিখাদ প্রেম, প্রেমিকের প্রতি নাছোড়বান্দা ভালোলাগা - শত চেষ্টাতেও পিছু ছাড়েনা।হাজার হাজার মাইল দূরেই পালাই আর অভিমান-অভিযোগ-আক্ষেপের ডালি যতই সাজিয়ে তুলি কলকাতার বিরুদ্ধে..."এই শহর জানে আমার প্রথম সব কিছু, পালাতে চাই যত, সে আসে আমার পিছু পিছু..."

The Boy in my dreams

                - Sukanya Chaudhuri

I saw him again, in my dream

sitting alone by the stream.

His emarald view took over my soul.

With just a glance, my heart, he stole!

His flawless straight black hair.

His scent lingering in the air.

His serene eyes were a hint of brown

What a lovely majestic hue!

His skin, lighter than ivory.

His inner beauty was like mystery.

His cheeks had a chubby feel.

and in the centre, a delicate nose.

His shining lips were luscious pink

I stared at him without a blink

His dress was all meaty brown

With a pair of specs shining with intellect!

With a guitar gripped by his fine hands.

His intense looks did sweep me off my feet.

I then realized- the boy in my dreams-

Is the man of my life.

This one is dedicated to the man I love. I wrote it I was just a girl of eighteen and he too was just a boy. I am grateful to the Almighty for sending him- the most precious gift of my life.

WITHIN THE SOUND OF SILENCE

--- A random series of events, posed with questions and a surreal answer.

The drums grew louder in its beats, befriending the guitar in a note that could now possibly enchant a dimly lit castle. The music allowed the mind to wander and float in a cloud of figment imagination. Along with characters like love and betrayal.

Trees bloomed often in thoughts and the eyes look more extraordinary, sometimes even exquisitely beautiful - etched in perfectly crafted sentiments.

The violin would stop every time she turned and looked back and a strand of soft hair fell strategically on her face, covering her eyes. 

And then the music changed to sudden tension - the violinist having a wonderful time with his agile hands, lifting the music to a level that was absolutely fantastic. He even shed a tear while coming back to the situation. 

Something horrible was going to happen.

Something that makes the music stop for a few seconds before the singer turns up her pitch, drums on the side. Everything happens in quick, rapid succession. Love is lost, friends deceive, mothers die, sisters cry at funerals, the bus hits you in the face, the bus hits the dog for its life, and you find yourself having a popsicle on a lonely bench, near a lonely riverside in a lonely world where you would find no one but you.

The saxophone pushes its air into your lungs while you sit at the table, having a glass of fine wine. The pianist sitting across, winks at you with affection. Because for once, you asked him to play his favourite song.

-- So what if he is late? He will be here anytime.

Someone starts singing a cover of 'The Fix' and all she hears is "And the odds that I got, were delicious". You wonder if the chandelier will drop in the tension of the song. And just then, he arrives.

The chandelier drops in his wait, crushing its crystals into lovely sharp delicateness all over the floor.

There is silence, there is love happening.

There are acoustic guitars with no strings attached.

The background is now full of saxophones and pianos and horse carriages by the sea

***

What if the songs of the sea had something to do with the orchestra or the bass?

What if they were songs for strolling, played on a cello waiting for its musician? 

***

The castle now has a predator or a soul. Its form isn’t clear.
It resembles summer, the bright sun and its rays. Plants grow in the veranda where once there lay moss, clinging to the cold cemented floor. The ceiling is decorated with delicate carvings of captivating, sultry figures.

The top floor of the large hall now arranges itself into an Opera balcony and you listen to the melody holding a book, ironically helping you understand the emotion. 

You flow with the emotion, meeting a song with thunderstorms and a rush of instruments you don’t recognise rings in your ears like a change in the altitude, a loud humming of the waves of the sea.
 

--- As Long As You Love me.. 

What if you don’t make it?

What if the world ends like yesterday? 

With anxiety comes love.

Love and a whole lotta love.

And when a thousand years pass by, maybe even an eternity;

Will there still be love, like the whole lotta love?

Everything swirls into a whirlpool,

And darkness comes to talk with you again,

Within the sound of silence ---

A STORY OF SECOND- HAND BOOKS..

A little torn, coffee stained, a blot of ‘daal’ dried over the years, a signature, a forgotten bill. A story of second hand books and their hidden stories.

I am obsessed. Though I feel obsessed is a very strong word I am yet to find a word that would perfectly describe this feeling. Saying I love books would be an incomplete statement. What I actually love is second hand books. Scratch out love. As I said I am obsessed.

Its not the big, shiny, dust free book shop that I love. I love the tiny, with no space to stand, books stacked in no order, books on the floor, near the entrance, on the cashier's desk -- those book shops. Yes, one of the reasons is that I rarely have the money to walk into a book store and buy a new copy. 

There is a certain joy in picking up an old book, flipping through its yellow pages and yes of course smelling them. This love for second hand books is as old as my relationship with books. As a child, my parents would make sure that I save all the money I received from relatives for my birthday, festivals, for finally getting a Math problem right.I feel like those old books are waiting to be discovered. To be picked up by someone like me who will not look at its yellow pages and make a face, or keep it  back because the edges are torn or the back cover is missing. Waiting for somebody to hear their story. These stories are what pull me towards them.

All second hand books have their own unique story. Yes, some are 'brand-new' second hand books which make you wonder whether the previous owner even touched it. But the others are what I look for. Some have a signature on the last page; a phone number scribbled hastily. Maybe the owner noted it down while standing in a crowded train with no paper to spare. Some simply have a name and a date, telling the world who the book will always belong to. Some books have a stamp of the library from where it was taken and maybe never returned. Some have little notes on some pages, notes into the mind of the previous owner. There are books I have found with forgotten pieces of paper, receipts, bills, business cards.

In a copy of the book Nancy Drew:The Crooked Banister by Edward Stratemeyer, which I picked up at a second hand book fete in my school  I found an envelope which just had three words – From Aunt Betty. It made me wonder whether when Aunt Betty was sending a Christmas card, a phone call had interrupted her and then she'd completely forgotten about it. In another book, the name of which I don’t remember I had found a paper with lines from the book written on it. It was an untidy writing – the words hanging impatiently between the lines. After that whenever I read a book and found good quotes or lines, I started jotting them down. Some books have a huge dedication. I have a hard bound copy of God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy in one of my friends’ collections which has the following written – ‘Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Hope you enjoy the trip. We gift you this book in the hope that you will enjoy reading the story. Love.’For days I wondered why they gave the book away. Or may be they lost the copy while at sea and it travelled all the way to Kolkata(that’s where my friend bought it from) through various travellers to her.

All second hand books make me wonder the same thing. Why would someone part with the book. Why would they give away something that was once I am sure dear to them? Did they not like the story? Did they forget it in the train? Did they lend it to somebody and like always never got it back?

But then I silently thank these souls. If not for them, I wouldn’t have read my first Harry Potter with the torn cover bought for Rs. 80 from Marlyn D’Souza, my senior at school. It was not till the second book released did I know the face of the wizard boy. I thank them for keeping a little of themselves with the book and then giving it away. So that the book would now tell two stories – one told by the author and the other of its previous owner.