Avik's Story

  London is a collage - patched and stitched with pallets of colours, shreds of cultures and bits of languages. And a typical London double decker bus is the mirror of it. Following Taniya's transfer, I skipped driving to the office. This was mainly to save money from exorbitant parking fees and partly to save myself from city traffic. But if you always fancy for a closer-to-heart reason, then it is just because I get two hours to read - solid, without any distraction. But sometimes you can’t help cheating with reason and listen to heart, you can’t help but listen, watch and feel all the people - the passengers - they embark the bus, search for their seats, and find ways to kill the journey time. Tell you what, it is something I always cherish for, just like the thousands of moments formed and dissipated while I used to travel in Delhi Metro, and how some of those moments were powerful enough to be fossilised! The tiny bus stop of Beulah Spa reminds me of me. Mostly. It remains

  Today I dreamt of Kolkata. The morning began early when I heard the tune of Messenger. My window was faintly lit with the first light and wet from the night-long drizzle. I knew who was calling, and I was both eager and reluctant to touch the green button. I longed to see the face of my little girl and also dreaded her massive energy and questions and irrefutable demands to play. I opted green and I greeted her. Immediately, she began filters, games, backgrounds and incessant orders. I switched on the light, wobbly walked to the washroom and then held wooden railings, while slowly managing the stairs down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and then slumped on the sofa. We watched a few cartoons together (a cool feature in Messenger - we both love it) and then she got bored, and told me bye. Morning in London at this time is chilling. I stood up and switched on the heater. I returned to the lounge room and had a good look at my sofa - crowded with yesterday’s clothes, office bag, few und

The city skyline was never clearer this afternoon. Blue and crisp. This part of Waterloo Bridge, where I was leaning against the railing, above the mighty Thames, was too nondescript to describe, but was said to be the best for viewing the famous London skyline. On left, palatial creamy Somerset House, now hoisting a blue yellow Ukrainian flag in solidarity of their unspeakable sufferings. A little further, still left, giant Walkie-talkie and the humongous Scalpel, picaboo-ed the great bullet Gherkin tower. Mind boggling Cheesegrater stood along with them rather arrogantly. And St. Paul's Cathedral's eternal dome graciously lurked behind them. The astonishing cathedral is synonymous to the city itself. If one looked closer and was privy to this city space, and had 6/6 sight, then one might notice the Sky Garden in Walkie Talkie too. On the right, between the distinctive curvy Boomerang or Vase and bland tall Southbank Tower, the Shard pierced the sky and forever in talks with c

I frantically searched one more time, now in pockets - both of my jacket and jeans, again through the small luggage - now literally rummaging it, and then the pockets of other spinners. I looked down to the floor and scanned the surrounding, hoping to find a piece of paper and a small white hardback, lying somewhere unruffled. I could feel an enormous hole inside, moving up, sliding down, as if it was bouncing against stomach.   I quit the line and parked the cart at a side. I called the young cab driver, in a faint hope that the folder would be still on the roof of cab or somehow, by any miracle, he kept that with him. After a few rings, he picked up. My voice shivered. “Hello. Hello brother. I am the guy you just dropped at airport.” He recognised me at once. “Yes sir. I remember. Is everything fine?” “I can’t find my passport yaar. Is it in your car?” For the next few moments, which in particular felt like millions of years, I didn’t hear his voice. All I heard was some static white

Have you ever had a moment, when all other things of yours, including the ones which remained so dormant for years, that you already have forgotten their existences, like the rise of goosebumps or burning of lobules, get so buoyant that you want to scream out your tonsils? And you wish to keep screaming and yelling and screaming until everything before you just bursts and vaporises, and then you discover that you can’t even fucking move your own fucking tongue, as if it was never there, or underneath it, there is black void, just like space! I had. The airport looked otherworldly and shiny even at midnight. The massive thick glasses put a thin barrier between two worlds. Lit and dark. The ‘left-overs’ looked through the see-through wall and waved their loved ones, the ‘goers’, who soon would be vanished beyond numerous kiosks and then beyond the horizon. And I stood against a pillar absolutely in drunken stupor. My gaze was particularly at no where, but I am certain, it covered everyth

Oishikaa, Let me tell you a story. Many years ago, in ancient Nigeria, there lived a little brave girl named Komu, whose father was the best farmer ever. One day the evil Queen became ill and bad people blamed her father, as the Queen ate millet from his farm. The farmer was taken away as a prisoner, and Komu became sad. Days and months passed. Komu missed her father and one day she wiped her tears off and decided to rescue him. She sold everything she had and bought a horse. On her way to the palace, she passed a village, where crops were dead due to a terrifying disease and people were famished. But watching the hungry little girl, the villagers gave her their last food. When crossing the Niger River, watching the thirsty little girl, a blue fish gave her the last water drop of dried river. When she reached the bottom of the big mountain, on top of which evil Queen resided, a butterfly from a dead Obe tree gave her two wings before dying out of heat. Komu rode