Avik's Story

The suicide of Priya Vedi is more than disturbing. The unfortunate instance directly poses itchy questions to our society (read us) and drags our conscience to the pit of hypocrisy. Some are enraged in social media about her decision to quit, while others seek validity of her announced reasons. But hardly a few watch the broader picture here. That how much double-standards hidden in us are reopened by this single act of suicide. That still how much vulnerable are our womenfolk in this ‘impressive’ society. The case of Priya Vedi is exemplary because Ms. Vedi was academically and professionally successful, was a doctor, destined to save others and was independent and a woman; even then she preferred to be just a ‘woman’, a helpless ‘Indian Woman’, who conforms the typical mindset of an Indian man, despite having options of becoming a leading story of women empowerment. One of my female friends painfully described her anger for Ms. Vedi’s ill-decision in fb, and while agreeing with

Living in solitude, like in a narrow apartment, where sunlight is sparse and wind is still, is no good than a confinement. The only ambiguity here is about the source of my internment. Is it self-imposed, or somebody, unduly cruel to me, did it? Apparently, the answer is never straight, and so the question remains. I began to savor the deliciousness of a much loathed ‘new life’, with people accepting my new role, wrapped up by warmth and love of two of my favorite women. The cutest and smallest of them taught me the hardest and biggest lessons. Watching her giggling and touching my face with small fingers, oddly made me realized the worth of the famous line of ‘Forest Gump’, Life is like a box of chocolates and you never know what you’re gonna get. Feeling her tender breathing while asleep on my shoulder, I learned the value of patience and care like never before. And she also taught me how to smile, thousand rupees worth. I began to appreciate my life for the first time,

Every realization has a price, and sometimes it is more than one can bear. The apartment, I am still living in, was never so untidy and messy. Everywhere, there are either packed boxes or scattered things to be boxed. Somewhere, like in balcony, the piles of packets of groceries have blocked the passage way. Literally, this place is a reminiscence of a mid-sized go-down in dusty Sadar Bazar. And, like the inexperienced but enthusiastic heir of old ‘lala’, my wife runs amok, yells at everyone at her sight, and at the end, just sits on the sofa, opens her tab, and plays Candy Crush with a ‘don’t-dare-to-disturb-me’ face. I understand the ocean of pressure she is into and the momentary confusions she is facing, but I don’t understand my role here. Should I let her go? Just like that? She is leaving for Mauritius for long three years and she is taking Vedantika with her. For the last five years she, and for the last seven months ‘she’, have become a good part of mine, if not best. Sp

It is being said and commonly believed that ‘anything’ matures with time. Be that a country, a society or an individual. But, when I look back to that ‘anything’, I find the notion is absolutely ridiculous and illusive, as I haven’t met a single entity in my whole life, which ‘matures’ with time, rather it destructs itself slowly. Like a nation, which rises as of Phoenix from century old oppression possessing high morale and lofty ideology, slowly but steadily advances towards the oblivious dereliction. Like a society, whose birth was marked with equity and justice, ends up in a bloodied Mexican Standoff. And, like a person, who begins life with a promising freedom, slowly becomes a slave of self. Yes, I am pained. The education, I got in my childhood, seems to be in contrary to what I am supposed to do now. The rise of Centre-right or the befallen Centre-left in India, does not pain me much, as I am a firm believer of change. The gradual radicalization of public institutions is

Instantly, I felt bad. The screen of the phone was still lit and it was on my palm, my earlobe was still warm. People were everywhere, pushing me to board crowded bus or just as usual. And, I was perplexed. What I have done? Just now, I scolded and yelled someone over phone, which in general I never did, as I never liked to be. I raised my voice to my own irritation and sort of un-soothing satisfaction. I used some rude words, which I hated to use against any. And most of all, this guy worked with my NGO and all he was asking to pay him for his service, which I was disagreed for. Am I a bad person? Setting an NGO is tough; tougher is collection of funds but to get the job done in time is the toughest one. With passing of time, I realized that if the lofty ideology was the foundation stone of a charitable organization, business acumen and shrewdness were everything to grow that nascent. Ideology takes a corner, behind the shadow of day-to-day mudslinging and hard realty. A

Four years ago, I took a flight from Kolkata and reached Chennai to join my new service in ‘prestigious’ Customs Department. It was evening. My eyes were sparkling and mind was hyper-excited in anticipation of the powers associated with the post of the Inspector, atleast whatever my ‘well-wishers’ back at home made me believe. I did not mind that the taxi driver charged me astronomically or I could not take my dinner for a completely weird and extraterrestrial food consisting of lots of coloured liquids. I did not mind even the silent and signaled conversation with others for I did not understand their language a bit. I did not mind a thousand of things. But when I reached my office to join, my mind started minding a lot and I could not help it. And why not? To me, a guy who had not gone outside his state so far, Chennai was a real big thing. And now, they were throwing me in Trichy, a city 500 km away from Chennai, instructing me to join next day. Frankly speaking, I was damn sc

Oh! Good lord! ‘Am I crying’ ?  I stopped abruptly and touched the corner of my right eye with the tip of my right forefinger. Indeed there was a drop of water. But that might be a tear drop in real or just a drop of salty sweat! There was no way to be sure. My jogging suit was wet by now, because I had jogged two kilometers in this humid morning in west Delhi. Sweating beads started forming on my forehead. One drop might come down passing my thick right eyebrow! But, there was another probability. It could be a drop of real tear, because I was overwhelmed for the past few days by the unfolding emotions, opening slowly like layers of onions, pinching my eyes in this morning! I stopped, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and then I panicked. Visibly, my lungs were gasping for air, though air was abundant and my heart began beating faster and faster. I knew, my brain would produce adrenaline pretty soon and it would boost my tensed and panicked nerve cells throughout system. So

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