Avik's Story

Every morning I wake up with a desire to have a cup of smoky hot coffee or tea on my bed. But as I’m living on my own in a two bedroom small apartment, the desire only can be fulfilled if I would’ve bought a packet of milk previous day and duly boiled it, or I go to the kitchen with heavy eye-lids, clean the dirty utensils piled in yellowish wash basin, boil water with powder milk (which is a tricky and daunting task) , and most of all pour tea-leaves and sugar in such a proportion, that it would be edible! I tried a few times and emptied it ultimately in basin. Anyhow, I prefer to walk to the nearest tea stall and have a glass of hot tea, though not smoky; and a cold vajji. The distance is less than half a kilometre and in general, I choose my sky blue I-Pod as my trusted companion, but sometimes a few four-legged 'dudes' give me entertaining company with their street smart moves and crazy barking, and rarely adorable rubs. No doubt, I like that. It reminds me my wife 

‘If you don’t support Modi, then you must be an AAPtard or Khangress’ . And I hear that a lot. During tea-time at office or free-time in home or even at pee-time in toilet, I actually hear that sentence a lot. I never applied any of the sociological experiments on me. Who wants to be a guinea pig, despite their cute elongated faces and black pearl eyes? But these days are interesting. The very fun loving care-free guys surrounding me are transforming rapidly into dare-to-oppose tough hardliners, the beer-buddies into ‘cheer-leaders’ and suddenly there is a craze of part-time psephologists all over country and social media has become their fighting ring or if I want to sound realistic, a bloody underground pit. But don’t get me wrong, I kind of like that. Sadistic huh! But guess what, who can’t be tempted watching a guy outpouring his ever-so-blocked emotions through downloaded funny picture comments or morphed pictures with insult-intending sentences in the guise of criti

   I just returned from Delhi on a purely personal turned official tour and Anup hit me with a tempting idea.    ‘Dada, let’s go to any hill station. For a long time, we haven’t gone anywhere’ .    Well, frankly speaking, I needed no excuse. I hate this soaring temperature of Tamil Nadu after April and excruciating burning sensation second to none. Every morning I wake up hoping, probably today my ordeal will come to an end and it will rain. But as my less fortunate luck, perspiration wet my clothes and face, instead of rain water and I curse my fate vigorously. At this moment, the idea of Hill Station is intriguing like having delicious Chole Bhature or Momos in Tamil Nadu. I had to tell yes instantly.    I know exactly why our Parliament doesn’t work and MPs always fight. Our group is not 543 strong, but the mere 7 to 8 members are enough to create ruckus on any decision. The question was simple. Where to go, how to go and where to stay? And, we split ourselves on numerou

First I didn’t get him. All I saw, his swollen lips were murmuring something and he was pointing towards his bag, kept below seat near his foot. I asked, what? His lips moved again. But still I was not able to hear anything. What is wrong with this person? And, then I remembered, oh God, my Ipod ! I removed the white coloured earphone with little embarrassment. I was really sorry and I was going to express that. But then, I heard him; offering me a crazy proposal, which was titillating and outrageous at the same time. Do you want a peg? His fingers were in a position like holding a glass. I didn’t fully comprehend him first. Is he out of his mind? Offering me a drink, a complete stranger and more than 20 years older than me! And that too here, in a moving train!!! I simply didn’t know how to react. I nodded my head negatively and was about to plug in back the earphone; I heard him telling that he wouldn’t mind if I joined him. I pretended not to listen this time and plugged in e

Good morning sir. Good morning madam. When I reach my office; take the stairs or lift for first floor; pass the narrow corridor connecting two massive buildings; pass the room of personal secretary of supreme boss of this office; enter the section and take my own seat, I have to utter these two sentences indefinite times. I wonder why these sentences are never cliché! We use them millions times, but we don’t get bored!! Probably they are like salt, just like the title of my little blog. And, I get to hear only the first part, most of the times though without ‘sir’. The funniest part is I really don’t know whom to call what! Everybody looks Roman to me. So irrespective of ranks I greet everyone with ‘sir’ or ‘madam’. I have noticed a peculiar tradition here. While greeting each other, people raise their right hands a little straight. If hand touches forehead, the person in front must be of some importance; if it’s at chest level, then the person is of equal status; but if the

Sir, your coffee as you ordered . The airhostess leaning against me is quite charming; eyes are professional yet pretend to be compassionate. I close the book I was reading. Narcopolis. I was fully engrossed in Jeet Thayil’s narrative prowess and brutally seductive way of storytelling. I also had a short stint with narcotics, when I was dealing with mounting frustration after coming to City of Joy , Kolkata. I can sense the smell of ganja. I can feel the smoke inside, putting a hallucinating blanket, taking the senses far away. I can imagine the view of my room beside a cowshed, like a dingy. I can relate the story with my life, I had. I can sense all of those here, thousands metres above surface, in a small Bombardier airplane, on the way to my office at Trichy from Delhi . Involuntarily my lips stretch a little. I know that, it is a perfect smile and I hear myself speaking in a formal tone, ‘Thank you Miss’. The window seat, I am accommodated, is supposed to be pleasant

'Dada! Milk has been boiled. Please make the coffee before it’s being cold.' Anup knocks at bathroom door. I frown. Even frustration has no privacy! I just walked 7 kms, and that too in early morning. I sweated like a pig. My leg muscles are on fire. My clothes are on the bathroom floor airing pungent smell. And then, when I see my tummy, I find no change! I deserve to be frustrated man. I put the clothes in a bucket and soak it with water. I’ll wash them later. But I wash sweaty corners of my shitty body. I wish to take a complete bath. My whole body longs for it. But there is a critical choice to make. If I bathe now, the milk will be cold, and I have to boil it again. Boiling milk is always a tough and devastating task for me. Generally, I put the milk on gas and forget. I only remember when milk is overflowed and spilled all over gas oven. That’s why, nobody gives me this job, and I don’t want it too. I come out from bathroom wrapping a towel and head for kitchen.

              “Wake up (a)vik, wake up you crazy!”                         This is the usual call from my co-walker Anup. He stays just at the opposite block. At 5.30 am, when most people sleep and a few walk or run to reduce their tummies, we follow the latter group. The fat we have gathered during our study in Delhi (actually, during our ‘little’ hangouts in Karim’s, Chawla’s, Nizam’s, Momo Point etc etc), has converted our stomachs into some yet-to-be-named hills. We feel them every day with disgust, when we wear some carefully chosen branded new shirts and most importantly, khaki uniform. Friends, who have flat stomach, smile cunningly. Aur bhaiya! Kuch ghat raha hai kya? And those, who have tummies, generally don’t smile. They advise. Isse kuch nehi hoga bhai! Gym join karna padhega. But they only just advise. They never join gym or they never walk.                         We have our own reasons for trying to reduce fat. In my case, it is a simple case of spending tim