Avik's Story

Winter is my favourite, though I don’t want it.  And finally, it’s here. All the girls are covered in colourful sweaters, jackets and dresses; guys are in full sleeve leatherette brown or black jackets; whitish fogs are smothering the sleepy walkers, who’re still walking dead from forced wake-up; shopkeepers sip hot fuming tea while gazing lazily from their empty counters. But most of all, the air.  Chilled, piercing and fresh from last night’s mist. My face tissues gradually adopt with cold. I rub my palms and then press against cheeks, like my mother used to do when I shivered after having a cold bath in morning in school days. Again I’ve been transferred. Now far from my place. Again I’m standing in corner of a metro coach for hours with a book in my hand and music on ears. My foamed jacket brushes with others. My eyes meet with others for a second. They greet in silence.  Sometime a twitching smile on lips, sometime nothing. Total blankness. Someone’s smartphone plays a

“Hey madam Inspector. Let me buy you that decorative light.” “No. Please.” “It was a joke. I was never gonna buy you a one.” “Ohho. If I had told you yes, then would you have bought for me?” “Ofcourse not. You’re earning enough. Why should I buy you something expensive?” “Please buy something expensive for me.” “Hell no. And moreover I don’t have any cash to spare.” “You have credit card.” “And I’m not gonna swipe that for you. I like girls who buy for themselves.” “Is that applicable for Taniya too?” “Yes. That’s the first thing I liked about her. Mmm…can you ask them the price of that lantern?” “Okay. Excuse me. What’s the price of this? Twenty-two thousands? My god. TWENTY-TWO THOUSANDS!!” “Okay. Let’s get out from this cheap Turkey Street Bazar.” “Good idea. Where do you want to go? We have duty, remember?” “Do you want to go back for duty?” “Hmmm..no.” “Hehe. How many halls are there in Trade Fair?” “I gues

The first fiercest pain generally one has to bear is the failure of love. It shows the real pain-in-the-ass world in its ugliest form and then drags one to its darkest pit, where the memories wreak havoc to the body and soul, and when one crawls up to the light, one never is the same. It is that lesson of our life, which belittles us, shames us, hates us and then transforms us like nothing before, and perhaps nothing after. The process is gruesome. No gory violence can match with what is done by the blood-thirsting creepy brain cells during the process. They can tell one to seek revenge or do something disturbing, they can take one to the edge and push one to do something un-thinkable or they can smother one with depression. I remember me. And my friends. And what we did after rejection. I had this roomie – a happy go guy who turned into a woman-hater after what he termed as the worst break-up of history. I had this friend, who wanted to strangle his ex-girlfriend with lap

In this hue and cry of de-monetization if you feel patriotic, that means you belong to that neo-elitist groups, who believe India belongs to them. Only to them. Let me explain. I was eclectic when heard PM’s announcement, felt charged and positive. I called few friends, discussed it and then opened my purse, found only a hundred rupee note (rest was of five hundreds). I ran to ATMs and after forty minutes of struggling, I got eighteen hundred rupee notes, and found around thirty people behind me. Nobody complained. Nobody yelled at each-other. As if it was a magic. Next day when I was in metro, and then in bus, and then in office, every-freaking-where discussions were going on regarding Modi’s decision, near universal praise for him and his masterstroke. It felt good indeed. It felt that something concrete had been done. No small talk. No non-sense. The whole day I spent as a new-bhakt of Modi, read social media inputs, and discussed them. And then as the night approached and

When all the flowers swayed with soothing air and welcomed her, the little one smiled. Her mother taught her not to touch or pluck flowers. Flowers do have a life. The baby flowers grow from little buds to colorful petals, a full journey. She understood, and so when the flowers welcomed her, she leaned forward and giggled. She walked over the grass and played with butterflies, as though she could speak with them. They showed her their secret hives and their unlimited love towards flowers. “How come you guys fly? I cannot fly”, the little one asked. “You don’t have any wings. I can’t see any wings”, the leader of the butterflies said. He had these two beautiful mosaic see-through wings. And his little body was attached in-between. The little one was sad. She too wanted to fly and sat on flowers and love them. No one stopped butterflies from touching the flowers, only her mother did. She flipped her hands as though she could fly. The gang of butterflies laughed. “Why

(representational image @ pinterest)  I had a tickling sensation in my stomach for so long and I had no idea how to solve it. The problem was seemingly ridiculous. The middle aged tea-seller in my neighborhood wasn’t serving me tea anymore. Somehow he was angry or offended by me. And God knew why. That day at morning, I started walking briskly from my house as usual, crossed the rows of closed shops beside main road, and then took the service lane alongside NSIT, the famed engineering college in vicinity. It was my morning routine, except the days when I swipe off the alarm in my mobile and wake up exactly at nine. That is the last possible hour of time to be able to prepare for office and not to be marked as late. As usual, I walked that day upto the police chowki at the edge of the vast campus of NSIT, and then turned back, and stopped near the tea-stall at market. The uncle was from Bihar and he had a short  stealthy stature. He knew me by face. I was a regular. Few pe

F ar far away, in a small beautiful island nation surrounded by mighty ocean , there lived a small girl and her little baby. She named her baby as doll. It was not her best friend - her best friend was from her school, but it was her baby. She took her in arms when she was back from school, and fed her when the doll was hungry and comforted her when she was sad. Oneday the small girl came back from her school, and found the doll lying on the wooden floor. It was a clear afternoon. ‘What happened?’ She asked. Her head was little bent, as she leaned forward to her doll. ‘I’m ill. I fell down from bed, and now can’t get up’, the doll said. Her voice was melancholic. ‘Okay. I’ll help you’. The girl grabbed her raised hand, and then took her to bed. Then she kept her palm on her forehead to feel the temperature. It was hot. Her face grimaced. Her doll had fever, and nobody in this house did care for that. She had to do everything on her own. ‘You lie down here.

The girl snapped at me, as if I was drooling into something yummy, which was not mine, and the owner wanted me to shoo-away. She adjusted her dupatta and then tried to cover her bare shoulders by pulling her short kurti . Her face stiffened and she snapped at me again. I could hear the hard quirky sounds of her teeth, pressed against each other. And only then I came to senses, and shifted my gaze away from her and looked outside through the sweat tainted glass. ‘God. She is damn beautiful and she looks just like my first crush in college’. Once I read in Quora, if the stalker is handsome and well dressed, then girls take him as secret admirer. Well, I was neither well-dressed nor handsome. I was returning from office, and I was in metro. I was a mess. I choose a corner to stand, and the girl with fiery eyes stood beside me. Some persons have these things. They’re like Jatinga Fire. Innocent birds burn themselves to death. My first crush in college had this ‘Jatinga’ thing. H