Avik's Story

I was having beer. This was third, and I felt smoking. A live band was performing in main section of the bar. George Michaels’s ‘Last Christmas’ was filling the alcoholic air in a local accent and people all over wearing cheap Christmas caps were like in trance. I got up and walked towards the smoking section. I was in Trincas, a nostalgic bar in Park Street in Kolkata. The smoking room was nothing but a small glass cube filled with smoke. I entered with shaky moves and sat on a chair layered with ashes. ‘Last Christmas’ by then was replaced by ‘Brazil’ of Venga Boys. I closed my eyes. It felt awesome. Thousands of colourful bubbles were floating all over my mind. Didn’t know how long I was there, I came to sense to an angelic voice. ‘Do you have match sticks’? I looked up. A shady image. She was tall. Too tall. Her left hand held a cigarette between index and middle fingers and she had a beautiful face with long open hair. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any’? I managed, nodding my

Usually I stood at the side of sliding door of metro coach. Usually it was densely packed with office goers and students and usually I was reading a book with headphone over my ears. I was listening Kenny G’s melodious saxophone. It was soothing me a bit and was helping me coping with the nasty reality waiting for me whole day. And then came a jolt, the train was suddenly halted and the momentum shuddered everybody inside the coach. For some good reason driver had used the brake and for the same reason, the passengers standing without any support on their back, severely leaned forward first and then went back as they were. A woman in her forties was murmuring holding a book, presumably a religious one with lots of chants. Her eyes were closed and she stood facing me. She had a short height, medium weight and black hair with few white strings. The sudden jolt abruptly interrupted her murmuring cum prayer and pushed her away all over me. In panic, she tried to get hold of the

Everybody wants to be perfect in relationship, though sadly, nobody is. It’s impossible to have mastery on this aspect. Whereas our traditional experts in form of slutty friends, grumpy parents, suspicious relatives or liberal cousins give us valuable inputs, a common misconception about a working relationship lies within its definition – do you relate yourself with someone you love? Actually nobody does. Here are five signs that your relationship is imperfect but perfectly working. 1.         We fight too much This imperfection is like cement in a stunning architecture. Vicious fights or violent arguments cemented with wild passion for each other ensure a hard-to-break relationship. But remember to fight with words, not swords.

(dailymail.co.uk) Unlike the Bond girls, Bond has become quite ritualistically bored with time. With every new instalment, James Bond gets suave cars, sexy girls, futuristic gadgets and acrimonious villains, threatening to destroy the American version of peace of world, but in the process he loses his primary self of being a spy. In Spectre too, among eye-popping special effects and gasping action sequences, nowhere came a sequence, where James Bond used his analytical mind or aptitude even for a second. On the contrary, he looked dumb and sad, who was on verge of retirement. Bored, James Bored. (youtube) The opening sequence of Spectre was grand, probably best among Bond movies. The collapsing of building and the perilous flying of helicopter over the crowd in the Day of Dead in Mexico was a splendid beginning, which soon fell into abyss of unreasonableness and untidy plot. At one point of time, Bond entered a meeting of Spectre, an organisation of unimaginable power, as i

Once I remember asking credulously to one my soft-spoken colleague cum good friend, why Muslim women wore burqa, especially in circumstances like in plural India! My friend, who practiced Islam religion, but not alike hardliners or radicals, paused a little and started to reason. We were seated on a cheap cot in a hot humid afternoon of Tamil Nadu. Life outside was dull and alien, and we ventured into the forbidden topic on naive impulse, and immediately thereafter I regretted. The rock solid erroneous interpretation of 1400 years old scared scriptures has twisted his reasoning so much so that he compared women as succulent fruits, which should be hidden from wicked birds. He propagated this custom of wearing burqa as an effective measure to reduce the rate of rape in India, as the luscious juicy fruits would be hidden behind blackness, away from prying eyes of rapists. I understood that his conviction was obviously based on wide acceptance of the custom of wearing burqa by Muslim wo

The moment I noticed him properly I regretted my decision and nodded my head in exasperation. I wished I could undo it. Yesterday evening I had to go to Dwarka Sector 6 market and upon reaching at Dwarka Sector 11 metro station I took a rickshaw to reach the market sooner. There was a long line of rickshaw pullers and I went for the first one. The guy was in his thirties, had an uncut beard and looked in shape. We agreed on twenty rupees and I boarded his rickshaw. But the moment he started paddling, I was shocked and looked in startled eyes to an unnerving scene. The young puller was polio affected and he was using his right hand only to handle the rickshaw. He was pushing his legs vigorously by his left hand with each paddling, visibly painstaking. He had to literally bend over his handle to force down his crippled legs one by one by his left hand and riding back I felt tremendous guilt. I reprimanded myself and wished I could undo my decision. But the time was gone.

THE man in uniform with tantalizing automatic gun was yelling at me. A few moments back, I was in heaven, listening to Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven and now in hell. I removed my headphone and heard only some blabbering. When his tremendous tone calmed down, I understood him and through his big black moustache, he was asking me to stop there immediately, because the Prime Minister was passing by. Smile is a rare thing, so I faked a smile and asked the wobbly moustache, which Prime Minister? He had a surprise tone, 'ours'. I hanged the same fake smile on my face and spoke with a child voice, 'and look, all the bad guys in facebook say, he's extinct in our country!' Now the moustache was unmoved, probably fathoming my unsavory words before raising the tempting gun and shoot me. It was a nice morning, sky was cloudy, rain was expected and a cool breeze was caressing my hair. It was a wrong day to die, so I moved away from the glaring eyes of moustache to

A liar is a discomfort; even to the liar himself. But I don't feel that entirely. I ofcourse don’t like to lie to anybody, probably due to my lack of urge or gratification, but oh boy, I do lie to myself a lot. The problem is pretty simple. I have some expectations and they are incompatible with my life-style and my abilities. Also, my senses are accustomed to materialistic pleasures, thanks to my 'fading' wife and my mind is glued to some long followed customs, thanks to my middle class background. In a short, I am being termed by my closed ones as having a lazy ass and big mouth. But when it comes to solution, I pretend to be a God of answers and loose the last straw before drowning into self made filthy pit.

It’s a known fact that poor are most vulnerable. Expectedly, sympathy towards them is abundant and resources are copious. It sounds just to 'help' them to break the vicious poverty trap by providing them a ladder. Civil society, philanthropists and Central/state govts relentlessly run expensive programmes and spend countless hours analyzing the outcomes. But ironically, the poor themselves seem to be indifferent, as if all of these are pointless. I am not being sarcastic. I cannot say about others, but I never saw a poor, begging on street or selling innocuous cheap goods in train or roadside, is planning to get rid of poverty, as we want. They live in their own world and try to imitate so called 'rich' every possible way, except a good plan. Their expenditures on lavish items are proportionately higher than actual riches.

I hear a lot. 'Are you feeling lonely?' 'Are you feeling sad, that you are so far away from your daughter and wife?' Or the latest, 'Do you miss them?' I really do not know how to response. I wish the questioners did not know the answers already. But they know the answers, sometimes better than me; even then they do not hesitate to ask. May be they hunt a pinch of sorrow on my face or search for a drop of pain from my eyes. May be they want to converse just as fellow humans are supposed to do, but I can't give them what they want. I smile to them. A tweak on my lips. Mysterious kind. May have different interpretations, based on the question. I don’t know what they interpret, but they seem to be satisfied at the end. And I get it. Sometimes a smile or mysterious silence is the best response to a difficult question, or a question of known answer. Most of the questioners question not to listen, but to start a conversation or to prove that they are eno

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