Avik's Story

She loves me! She loves me not! I guess there's no way to know it - she's that puzzling.  One night - midnight it was, I woke up with a queer feeling of being drowned, as if I was tied to a heavy rock, and the rock was sinking bottom at rocket pace. I felt moist on my lips and an exploring tongue in my mouth, both familiar. I pretended to be asleep and she kissed me for minutes, before going back to sleep. She wasn't looking for anything more, I knew because I knew her, and because she was in love with me.  And then the other morning, late it was, I woke up and smelt stale, as if even the air froze in fear, and I seriously wanted to remain half-dead on my bed. It got worse. I heard her thumps on the floor and heavy breath all around. I sneaked a peek - her round face was growling in silence, as if she ate a gulp of cumulonimbus clouds and couldn't digest. I knew it was me. I knew because I knew her, and because she had a perpetual anger towards me. Most of y

The last year was hard on me, as I watched death closely and her whiff reminded me of my childhood, which was mostly stuck at darkest corners of our dusty roof, and my friends, most of whom were imaginary and lived in mirror and walls, returned with demands of love. I know, they meant no harm, as I took countless adventures with them in a lonely floor or in a past-odoured closet and I saved their lives and they mine, but my heart pumped and breaths weighed just by mere sights of them and I knew I was in trouble. I am not a child anymore, at least not by looks or the decisions I have to make for survival. I don’t have liberty to replace the visions in my nightmares or strength to shut them down, rather I try to live with them and make in peace, and until I am married and fathered and have beautiful souls surrounding me, death was so enigmatic that I almost fell to her mystic ways. The magic to vanish a person forever seemed to be the best way of life one could get. And so when I

Sometimes people find miracles while being in dirt, and today I found a box. A small tin box, comfortably decades old with rust already began to invade territory of white coating of tin. At once, I remembered the box – last I saw it four years ago, that was the time when Taniya and I stayed together and she was pregnant with our first daughter. It was her box – I remembered what she said then, that it was a nest of her memories. My daughters are coming. Finally. Right from the moment of couple of years back, when I took this apartment on rent, not a single day had been passed when it didn’t occur to me that this place was inhospitable for them. My balcony was full of cartons filled with old stuffs - so was another spare room, where one wall was invisible by heap of cartons of different sizes filled with varied unnecessary goods. I primarily lived in my bedroom and kitchen, occasionally in sitting room and dining place. And in Delhi, dust is omnipresent – and in my apartment i

Yesterday we had a small gathering – a sort of dinner party, honoring the little one’s arrival in this world. The gathering is the latest among many. She’s here only for twenty days and she’s receiving attention of all the joyous well-wishers – celebrating for her - jeering and cheering her tiny trivialities, even her obvious irascibilities. We, the parents too are receiving huge compliments – being congratulated often for bringing such a doll into existence. Into existence. But to where? And for what purpose? The questions came when I watched the baby after the guests left. She seemed to be restless and crying for probably being disturbed. She’s getting habitual to this world. She doesn’t know the applicable norms and customs to be followed before guests and hopefully, she’ll learn them pretty soon, because that is what expected from her. And she has to comply. While she was on my lap – whimpering occasionally – I couldn’t help but thinking the obvious. The Purpose. The Ch

I was never comfortable with girls. And one girl taught me the weirdest thing possible in my ordinary life – and that too when I was in primary school. Suck my toe. It was gross – as I think of now. How could I do that? Didn’t I feel yucky? Didn’t it occur to me that it was way too bizarre? I guess, those questions are redundant, as in most of the cases, logic can’t explain your happiness. All I had to do, sit on the torn mattress and bend down as far as possible – way to my folded legs – and then select a toe posed near ankle, and suck until either of it became smelly – so smelly that I couldn’t tolerate anymore, or the teacher noticed me. I was not alone though. The girl - a tiny figure, whose oily hair was neatly divided into two strong ponytails and who did walk like hopping, with her ponytails swaying like two free beasts – taught that trick to a few others. But she was the best toe-sucker I ever seen. It was my stop-gap school – a government run pri

I am a vividly happy guy – everybody perhaps knows that; but what only few of them know is that I’m a bigtime crier too. Tears are familiar to me just like the smile of mine. They’re infectious. Tears are my best immune and sometimes survivals. They’re mostly hidden, literally behind walls – in safe custody of bathroom sometimes. But they’re precious. They bring life out of me everytime. They make me more humane everytime. And this time I cried seemingly for no reason. I was in Airport. I was on duty. Some big hot-shot bureaucrats were in city to attend a massive seminar hosted by the most powerful person in country, and when it was over they were returning their places of working – to different states. My job was to facilitate their departure procedure – a mundane boring job – mostly receiving calls from someone from hotel or drivers and then passing the same to Protocol Division inside airport. I preferred to seat outside - beside a café-stall and under a decorative shed, rather th

We have a sort of song. Kind of a crude song only for us. A song detailing the beginning of a journey, which was impossible at sight, but nevertheless it happened. But that story is different – to be told with a cup of smoked coffee, in a room under grey sky and thousand stars, preferably beside a wayward river. Maybe I will sing that song over guitar and let you humming on that night. But today let me tell you a secret. That I know she loves me. Don’t laugh. We are married, but we never took vow to be together. We never uttered those magical three words. We don’t know how it started, and we have absolutely no idea, when it will end. But we are best friends for last eight years, married for five years and a parent for last three years! Life has changed so much. Time has changed from a sip of vodka on a slippery tram-line in Kolkata to a bottle of unknown wine in a private beach in Mauritius under moonlight and before vast ocean. And yes, we have changed. But still I had t

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