Avik's Story

Taniya fought with me, when I simply asked her to confirm. “Should I go today to Nehru Place?” She flamed up. She accused me of not putting her in my top priority and then used some fence-sharp words, which dug my skin and pinched my heart. I didn’t blame her. I came back from office and then went hurriedly to Nehru Place, showed my M-ticket to a uniformed doorman in Satyam Cinema, went upstairs and found my seat in a fairly large hall. It was eight in evening and I could hear all Bengali chatter around. The movie, ‘Praktan’ was about to start. My job was simple. Watch it and then relay it to her. She loved the title tracks and the trailer. She wanted badly to watch the movie, but she was out of any means. Hence, me. My little research about the movie revealed interesting facts. It was being released in many USA theaters today and Mukesh Bhatt had bought the copyright for a Hindi remake with same title even before it was released. And the belligerent couple was none other than

I’m a pretty shit guy, who’s blessed with wonderful women all around. Among them, two and half are mother-figures, rest are sisters, aunties or friends. The first one is my Mom , who vehemently rejects the idea that I may grow up oneday, or maybe I’ve grown up. She still unpacks my bag, when I’m home and packs them with teary eyes, when I’m about to leave. She still washes my cloth whenever possible, and arrange them neatly at almirah. She knows, which dish to prepare to convince me to eat more. She knows when I’m ill or when I’m depressed, and often is the first one to call and console. She was the first woman of my life, and still the best one. But I’ve been shit to her. I lied to her several times. Now I know she knew all, but she never pointed those in my face. I was with friends - partying, or with girlfriend - fooling around, or with colleagues – drinking and I hanged her call. I told her I was busy, I’d call later. And I forgot. I didn’t call back. Maybe next day, she

Past 90 days, so far deadliest forest fires have claimed 1900 hectre of forest in Uttarakhand. 6.17% of Indian forests are prone to severe fire damage. 50% are risky. High Temperature, Low Rainfall & El-Nino to be blamed, but foul play hasn't ruled out. Govt. says it will take actions against culprits after the fire is doused. Govt's inability and incapacity fuels the rage of fire. Every year between February to June, forest fires are common because the soil becomes dry and moisture less. Govt. does nothing to take precaution. Some say, local timber mafia started this fire. They are the one of the most powerful mafia in India. Last year more than 15000 fires have been reported in India. Maximum of them are by mafia. Billions of dollars are lost. Millions of trees are burnt. Thousands of houses are destroyed. By severity, this year's fire has galloped the entire region into a terror.  So far 6000 personnel are working day and night to douse

The man was Srinivas Ramanujan. Expectation was high. I bated breath when the title scrolled on screen. The previous biopic titled ‘Ramanujan’ directed by Gnana Rajasekaran on this enigmatic Indian autodidact, was a failed attempt to capture the essence of his short life, and the beauty lied in it.  But this one is a top class Hollywood production, though with relatively low budget.  The movie began, and we heard the engaging voice of Cambridge mathematician G.H. Hardy (Jeremy Irons) depicting his relationship with this mysterious Indian in 2012 and then the story took us back to Madras in 1914, where Ramanujan (Dev Patel) was shown living in abject poverty and searching for a clerical job. The rest was his epic fight with people’s skepticism, incredulity and his fate, until he reached to the pinnacle of success. The hell of a story. The hell of a life. Tear jerking scr

Study says, 33% users become somewhat dissatisfied with life or present status, right after using Facebook. I didn’t believe it. I thought it was preposterous. Some bull-shit. I mean Facebook is just a media, a time pass and something to long onto when nothing else works. How can it dissatisfy someone? Well. I was wrong. It’s fucking dissatisfying. I Gini-Pigged myself. First, the happiness. Always someone is marrying or getting into new job or moving into new town or travelling some cool places. And looking into them in screen while wobbling in a stinking sweaty crowd in a moving metro coach, or sitting on a dull chair before a junky desktop alongwith gloomy colleagues in a dismal room, obviously sucks the leftover happiness or whatever. So I scroll down with a silent growl. Second, the selfies . The piggy style or goat style or monkey style or donkey style, whatever style they follow, the girls look always hot and the boys look muscled stud. I look on contrary

Mom didn’t cry yesterday, nor she lowered her face and rubbed her forehead with palm in a vain way to stop tears. I touched her feet and she kissed me. I told her goodbye and requested to have food in time, to exercise a little and to walk in morning or evening. She nodded, and she repeated everything to me. It was our thing. A very old ritual. I nodded, and I was waiting for that moment when she’d cry or hide her tears. Back days, I begged her innumerable times to stop that embarrassing thing, and that I wasn’t going anywhere dangerous or something and I’d call her every day. She didn’t stop. She told that she tried but couldn’t. But today she was smiling, while waiving me goodbye. She was SMILING! Was I disappointed? Was my importance to her fading? Did she stop missing me? Or, was I uncomfortable for being in a total new thing? While waiting at lounge in airport for a delayed flight, I couldn’t stop from thinking. It started in ancient period. I was a shy kid at the

Kolkata has been always kind to me. My first job, first love, first pot and first drunk walk through the tram lines. First time, I appreciated being alone and in crowd. First time, I kissed a girl and took her to my room only to shiver when she undressed herself. Kolkata beholds a special place. Good or bad. Precisely, that’s the reason, it always claims most of my vacation period. That’s why I roam through busy corners, lazy bi-lanes, old buildings and oldest subway train. I watch fantastic movies and savor Bengalised snacks at cheapest price and stop by the tiny tea shops, where I find the both budding and ageing locals with unbelievable political insights dissecting Bengal, India and World while sipping tea from a small clay pot. But nothing compares to the orgasmic satisfaction of sniffing the dust of the old books in College Street, whose past owners live inside the pages. The humbleness of those books and arrogant sexy looks of new ones, the cool breeze on the banks of

The moment I woke up, I felt content. My memory lane was open and there was a clear passageway between the long lost electromagnetic pulses from hippocampus region and my eyes. I was there, in the very room, where I had spent most of my childhood. The room, whose every wall had distinct color, whose balcony gave this wholesome picture of the quiet and motionless village, houses roofed with inclined brick tiles, and the old trees, still alive. The furniture had changed, but one or two of them from my childhood period survived. A wooden almirah with decorated glass and carved with peacock imagery stood at corner, now contained with extras of the house. Extra blankets, extra bed sheets, extra everything. And there was that bed. Massive. Made of mehgony and with modern comfy mattress on it, it certainly took most of the pride. But everything else was replaced. The light was new, the others furniture were trendy, the balcony got a makeover with glass panes and all. Only a primordi

The day started as usual. Alarms snoozed tirelessly for hours, from five in morning and when finally I left bed, it was seven thirty. Took some water. Went to bathroom. Brushed yellowish teeth. Greeted to the couple-friends in other room, who came last night and cooked delicious chicken. Skipped bathe and dressed the same clothes of last day. Put on shoes, dirty from last evening’s surprise mud , near metro station. By then, it was already twenty past eight. And I got a call from  Taniya . I thought first, I’d pass. See, I had no time. But then I decided to put her through earphone to avoid future confrontation and there she was, with dizzy but warm voice still longing for bed and blanket. While Delhi was getting hot and humid, Mauritius being in other hemisphere was colder. We spoke semi-formally and then I asked about the little devil, who was supposed to be asleep till now. I wanted to see her just for once, before going out for a shitty day. I did a video call. She w

Dr. Jerome Motto, a psychologist wrote about a guy in his thirties, who jumped to death in 1970 from the infamous Golden Gate Bridge, which often termed as a marvel of technology, but a social failure. The reason was haunting. Deeply haunting. The guy wrote his suicide note, or rather ‘life note’ as below: But no one smiled at him. No one. Even witnesses told their accounts later about how the guy waited on the railing of bridge for hours till sunset and kept smiling at random people. I remembered late writer Sunil Ganguly too wrote about the incident in his famous travelogue on Paris “Chobir Deshe, Kobitar Deshe” (In country of Paintings, In the country of Poems), while pointing towards the relative heartlessness of crowd. I know, in this world of unreasonable earthly madness, this surreal act of lunacy sounds silly and immature. Maybe empty to many. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the pain and hopelessness of that poor guy standing on the verge of death, putti

‘Okay. But I don’t know Chinese. How can I know Chinese? I know Hindi. Can Hindi work?’ I fumbled to explain. And then she laughed. I was in this line in Airport in Mauritius preparing for check-in. My time with my two awesome pagliz had ended surreally. At very last moments, while Vedantika cheered with us with her adorable water bottle, we like two good-old friends opened Tequila and had three shots with lemon and salt. My taxi was waiting outside. And it was raining. I didn’t want to come back, but sometimes we are out of options like the wasted rain drops over the glass of speeding car. Sometimes we can just held hands and pretended to be grown-ups. And we did that, in taxi, in waiting hall, and even when we stood in the line for collecting boarding pass. She carried my trolley. Her eyes as usual were mysterious but poignant. God! I already started to miss her. We miss more when we get more. And then it happened. We were in front of this check-in counter. A young pre

I remember Ojha Sir of Vajiram used to say in class, ‘Do you know how to recognize common men? Just ask them the solutions of the most impending problems of India. They will have the same answer. How to solve Kashmir? Send Army and kill all. How to tackle Maoists? Send Army and kill all. How to check growing militancy in North-East? Send Army and kill all. How to deal with Pakistan? Send Army and kill all.’ And then he used to pause, and announce little dramatically, ‘And when you find them, just do not debate. Because you cannot win. Just nod and leave.’ Whole class laughed. They liked it, because they knew it was true. Or, as it was an IAS preparation class, power-dreamy students pretended to understand with their temporary open-minds. Whatever. Surfing Facebook is fun, because only here people can’t pretend for long. You open a person’s profile, don’t go for the ‘About’ section, rather look into his/her sharing patterns, you definitely get a hold of that pers