ऐसा तो नहीं था …

ऐसा तो नहीं था
कि मुझे पता ना था ।
ऐसा तो नहीं था
कि मुझे अंदाज़ा ना था ।

ऐसा तो नहीं था
कि मैंने सोचा ना था ।
ऐसा तो नहीं था
कि मैंने सुना ना था ।

फिर भी कम्बक्ख्त!
उस पल के लिए
मैं तैयार नहीं था ।
शायद खुद को ठीक से
परखा ना था ,
या खुद को ठीक
से बाँधा नहीं था ।

खैर ! दिन के सूरज ने
रात के अँधेरे से
बचाया कब था ?

The Fall

A bridge creaked,
shivered the shivering
two souls that wanted
nothing but love.
Silence embraced them,
neatly fitted
into the pattern
only time could tell.
Her wide eyes looked
below into the water,
mind deciphering fate
skipping the present.
The storm closed in
seeing the undecided
vulnerables stuck
on the fork.
“How was it before?”,
blurted out the loner
desperation to know
her well and his pain.
The bridge got a whip,
the thread got taut,
the bridge got a lash,
the thread got twisted.
The free fall began
as freely as the star lost
her way in past distant,
ignorant of her moon.
Wind swished past
the silent ears which
the words pierced
and led to the collapse.
No, No, she could’t be
someone else’s queen,
unacceptable to the
falling romantic fool.
In her fruity voice,
she could not help
but ask, “Are you
there or got lost?”
With a loud thud
he hit the surface,
only to find himself
back onto the bridge.

To be read or not to be

Usually, I hate to write autobiographical blogs. It exposes you. It puts you in the spotlight when you don’t want to be. And it is boring! Whose life is interesting without any of the traditional spices added to make a story tick? Instead, I prefer to write stories and using the anonymity of characters, I keep pouring myself out. The only indication a reader gets that these characters might not be that fictitious, not that unrelated to me (okay, apart from the relation that they are the characters created by me) is that I put my blog-stories under category ‘Not so fictitious’. Then I wear a satisfied (smug?) look on my face and invite readers to decipher which part of the character belongs to me, which part really happened, which are figments of my imagination.

It is not that I have a huge blog following. My readership would certainly come under one of the tiniest one on the face of the earth. But there is an important reader who never gives up on me, or rather how hard I try to get rid of him, he never leaves me alone. He always reads my blogs (and I can feel his prying eyes on me as I write), never get easily satisfied unless he gets what he wants. Sometimes, I love him, but more often I hate him; and not less importantly, sometimes I simply grow neutral to him. So, although the readership base may be not so large, but it’s quite significant  for me(yes, there i said it. I am an egoist) to keep them satisfied.

The size of the readership once worried me and it had my attention. I used the usual dirty tricks of going to every damn blogs on WordPress.com and liking their posts or entire blogs without bothering to read their posts or know what their posts are all about. It did work for some time. I started getting good number of likes on my blog. No matter how less effort I had put to stitch together the words/ideas to come up with a pitiable story or poem, I got enough number of likes to fool me that I am doing a good job. However, I realized that there are some rules to follow if I were to remain in their favorites list for a long time. The first rule was to keep posting. That was easy. I kept churning out poems or short blog-entries on day-to-day basis. Now, the other rule — to engage with them. I was required to go to their blogs and like their posts. Not only this, I have to comment (that’s the difficult part unless you want to make fun of yourself, and blabber in the comment section without bothering to know what the post was all about.) It’s not that I am an introvert. I don’t hate engaging with strangers.(In fact, I am more of a professional when it comes to engaging with strangers in the real world). But I found that reading somebody else’s blog is not my cup of tea. It had nothing to do with the quality of blogs I read. Somewhere deep inside, I decided to utilize my blogging time to write my new ones, instead of spending time on somebody else’s blog. For me, blogging means to write blog. (Throughout the day, I get or have to read somebody else’s work. Here, I get to make others read.)

Gradually the likes tinkered down. But I got used to it once I shut my eyes to all popular blogs. It gave me freedom not to post anything new for months. I utilized this to write longish short-stories. I planned the plots, characters, moments, and then penned them together into my stories. And sometimes, I do nothing at all. I try to keep my eyes and ears open. Away from the scrutinizing gaze of the readers (except the intruder) , I just keep waiting for an idea that would possess me as I go along with the thing called Life.

The parting

Once upon a time, there
somewhere stood a tree
sun-parched, rain-lashed
next to a stream.

Wings fluttered overhead,
sky tormented it.
Prisoner’s window.
Isn’t a sinned escape?

Time passed by
as it always did.
Longer it appeared
looking up at sky.

One fine day, there
it was dozing wearily.
The horizon’s depth
sent a whirlpool.

Its mundane serenity
got shelved away
when a dove landed
softly on its twig.

Discreetly taking
note of the place,
she sighed safely
resting her whole.

Under its eyes,
she ruffled her
tired feathers while
keeping her guard.

‘Don’t you think
today’s weather nice?’,
blurted out the loner.
‘Huff…’, Beauty mumbled.

Out of blue, darkened
clouds jumped there.
‘yes’,it prompted.
‘no’, she protested.

Downpour punctured
her running away.
Time paused
as it never did.

A few days later,
world around did
notice new shoots
sprouting hidden.

chatted and blabbered
muttered and mumbled
laughed and guffawed
shouted and cried

Time passed by
as it always did.
Shorter it appeared,
sharing their soul.

Somewhere deep inside
healing were both
from the bruises
unhealed by time.

Envied all the neighbor
with no magic in theirs,
they loved soaking
into theirs.

Again it showered, it
perhaps loved to rain.
It tempted it to
seal the magic.

Time had seen it
from time immemorial.
Its heart wrenched
seeing the obvious.

Her wide eyes soaked
in the long-awaited,
before her beak voiced
the terribly safe no.

Tearing herself away
from its trunk
she prepared for
her delayed flight.

‘Leave tomorrow, when
it stops raining’
‘If i stop, it would
never stop.’

She shied away from
looking into its eyes.
But she couldn’t stop
her leaning on it.

Cuddling together, they
prayed for time to freeze.
But time passed by
as it always did.

She sighed, it sighed.
She shivered, it shivered.
She held it, it held her.
She moaned, it moaned.

Onslaught was nature’s
as was the victim.
‘no’,she moved away while
her wide eyes betrayed.

Wind swashed the green
as they soaked the finale.
Something got taut, while
she prepared for bluster.

Forgetting its roots
stuck deep into earth,
it wriggled to move.
She writhed to leave.

Holding it there in
her eyes, she gave
a wistful shared sigh
and took the flight.

Time passed by
as it always did.
Only it had never
pained as it did.

A Shifting

“Oh no, not now!”, Mrs. Pandey said as rain splattered heavily on the kitchen’s window-panes on a cloudy day. She hurried upstairs to the terrace after reducing the stove’s flame. The rain had just begun but the damage was done. She had just come barely a few minutes before to check if the clothes had dried. They had still been a bit damp. A couple of more minutes in the sun would have been enough. The sky was overcast at that time also. But it was normal for Bhadav month and even more normal for Kolkata. Instead of taking clothes safely back with her to dry them under the fan, she changed the clothes’ sides exposed to sun and decided to come back after cooking the spinach. She was feeling a bit confident in her decision due to the high winds blowing then. And now her clothes, with water dripping from them, lay loose and damp on the ropes. She stared at them calculating how much work had increased. They had to be spread out on chairs and tables under the fan during the night so that they could dry.

Her husband had a government service and as a result, they had to change places often. They had shifted to Kolkata only recently, their first in the eastern India. Each shifting took the same effort as it took for a tree when replanted at a place different from where it had germinated. She was supposed to be good at shifting places and making new friends quickly. But with age, her willingness and ability at this were reducing gradually.

Kolkata didn’t suit her much. With incessant rains, not only the weather remained damp but her mood as well. Part of it could be attributed to her loneliness. In the mornings, it was busy like hell. After her morning chores were done, with her daughter and husband on their way to school and office respectively, solitude embraced her like an old friend. Kolkata being new to her offered her no friends as of now. Every thing -neighbours, Bengali language, her house, the trees around- was alien. But strangely enough, outside the goverment colony, some parts of Kolkata appeared familiar. No, not the parts of Kolkata such as places around City Mall which had been invaded by the forces of the thing called modernity. These places could have belonged to any city. They were impersonal, nothing humane.

Roadside stalls selling food; wet roads where buildings (some of which had been painted red recently to hide their age) came quite close, standing just next to the pavements; hand-pulled rickshwas running past. For her, they looked like the pieces of original Kolkata peeking from the folds of the past. She felt quite close and distant to them, both at the same time. Close because she sensed she had been to those streets, walking amidst those slow-moving yellow taxis; although she was quite sure she had never been to Kolkata before. And distant because she was quite sure these things no longer belonged to her. Somebody had snatched those things away from her.

“They are on the top rack near the bed”, she said loudly spreading clothes on ropes tied just outside her door. Her home was on the first-floor of a two-storied goverment building, situated next to the road. The building was sub-divided into two parts — each part housing four families on the two floors. On the first floor, there was a passage connecting these two parts. The same passage also served as the common balcony for the four families staying on the first floor. It was a bit open there, where its one side faced road and the other faced the pavement which connected with other buildings nearby. Below the former side, there were stairs that led to the first floor. While on the latter side, there were ropes tied for the clothes, where they were safe, at least, from the drizzles. After her previous experience with Kolkata rain-gods, she had started using them. Though she didn’t prefer them to the terrace, where she could run her eyes all over the neighbourhood in the open air when she went there for drying clothes, her clothes were safer on the balcony. She could also keep an eye on her clothes from her kitchen window.

It was morning. Her husband had left for duty leaving her alone for her day’s most difficult assignment – prepering her daughter for school in time. After hurriedly putting clips on her clothes, she went inside to find her daughter, Bubly, still struggling to locate her socks. She quickly retrived the socks for her and making her sit on the bed, she pulled out her shoes from below the bed and helped her in wearing them. Then she fed her breakfast and taking her bag and an umbrella, escorted her to the school.

On her way back, she was accompanied by other women who had also gone to drop their children to the school. She had gradually started exchanging smiles and a bit of gossip with them. The sky was today clear with breeze blowing. On the neem tree near her home, a flock of crows was cawing happily.

Unlocking her door, she found her home as if they had shifted to this house today. Wet towel thrown on the bed, empty plates left over on the table and newspaper spread flat on the chair. The scene robbed her off any sense of accomplishment for the day. There was only one difference compared to early morning when she was busy getting her daughter and husband ready. There was not much urgency now. She could catch some rest. But she knew better than to let herself indulge. When she was young, she never had to fight these compulsions. Then neighbors around her forced her to be always on her toes, lest they finish their work before she. As she had ‘matured’, she stopped bothering about this petty competition and had tried taking some break after sending off her spouse and child. However, on those days, house-work appeared more boring, excruciatingly long. Thinking about those days, she sighed and tucked her pallu in the sari preparing herself for the assault  After about an hour, she was ready to go to the kitchen. Today she was going to prepare masala dosa. She checked the paste kept in the aluminium vessel. It wasn’t ready yet. She added some baking powder to it so it would ferment before noon. She took the utensil outside. Shooing away a crow sitting on the rope, she kept it on the parapet. The sky was still clear. Hopefully it would be sufficient for the dosa paste. Then she went back to clear off her morning mess from the kitchen.

She liked to have some tea after her morning chores; it acted as a break, getting her ready for lunch preparation  While keeping the tea-pan on the flame, she reminisced on how she used to struggle while preparing masala dosa. Her South Indian neighbour at Chandigarh helped her in learning what was the right mixture for the paste. But the tricky part was something else, which could not be simply told. It was to turn over the dosa on the pan without breaking it, when its one side was done. In her over-earnest attempt to do it right, all – the walls, her saree, utensils around – used to taste the paste when she turned over the dosa in a jiffy. She smiled and her eyes strayed through the kitchen window to look at the dosa paste container. The crow was still sitting over her clothes. An insolent crow! Apparently it was its favorite spot. Realising that she was seeing, it bent forward, ready for flight anytime. Both were looking straight, unblinking, as if playing who-would-blink-first. Then she said,”Shoo!” and it flew away.

Today she was feeling a bit cheerful. It looked as if for a few days the rain-clouds had gone on a vacation. She was not complaining. Her work got completed a little earlier. She chose to wear her Bengali black saree. Combing her hair, she looked in the mirror at herself. She was looking good. Her mother-in-law had disliked the black color but she had shrugged off her opinion.


She shouted, “Baba, wait.”

There was an old man who used to come in the campus every alternate day to sell sweets and curd. His style of carrying his stuff was like that of Shravan Kumar carrying his parents. On his shoulder, he carried a stick with containers kept safely in the knotted ropes hanging from each side.

She planned to surprise Bubly by giving her sweets in lunch. She found her money-bag and bolted her door. As she was passing through the balcony, somebody landed on her head and flew away the very next instant. She looked at it to find it was a crow flying towards the neem. She kept looking in that direction. She didn’t understand. ” Madame’! Come faster.” “Yes, coming.” She got down hurriedly pushing her questions away.

With one hand holding the bed-sheet, she was extending her broom-hand as much as possible to reach the dust sitting lazily beneath the bed. It had gone dark. She believed it inauspicious to use the broom after sunset. If it were not for the guests coming home shortly, she would have postponed it to the morrow. Usually, she completed this before she went to bring milk from the tabela. But today she got a bit late and had to hurry off because of the milkman’s habit of mixing water into milk. Seeing her running for milk in the evenings, her husband had asked her so many times to start taking milk-packets instead. However, she never got used to taking milk-packets. Wherever she shifted throughout the country, she always found locales selling fresh milk of cow or buffalo. It was an excuse for her to get some outside air during the evenings. Along with it, she used to get good-quality milk. Tezpur got her used to buffalo milk as a lot more ghee, could be extracted from it, compared to that of a cow.

“Bubly! bring the new bedsheet and how many times do I have to tell you to hide this rag behind the almirah? Be fast. They will arrive any minute.”

And surely enough as she put on the new bedsheet, somebody knocked on the door.

“Pandeyji! Now, it’s too late for you to run and hide in someone else’s home.”

“Yes, Mishraji. Now I have no option but to be your host for the evening. I had banked upon the rain-gods to ruin your plans but i should have known better”, Mr. Pandey replied, opening the door with his family standing behind him.

Both of them started laughing. Mr. Mishra followed by his wife and daughter entered the home.

After greetings were exchanged, the children went to the bedroom for playing their games, while the elders cracked jokes and laughed loudly in the drawing room. After some time, the ladies went to the kitchen to prepare pakoda and tea.

“So, how’s life out there among the civilians?”, Mrs.Pandey asked. The Mishras lived outside the campus. They had not been given government quarters as they had just arrived at Kolkata. Only after waiting for six months, would they be allotted one.

“It’s not that bad. After the usual initial hiccups, it has gotten fine. But they charge you for everything, even for bricks.”

“What? Seriously, for bricks?”

“You would not believe it. We needed some for keeping them under boxes. There were some bricks in the park in front of our home. But the land-lady didn’t allow me to take them when i asked her. She said she might have use for them in the future.”

“Hmmm…I have an idea. When it’s dark, go out with a empty bag pretending that you are going outside for shopping. And then come back with the bricks in those bags.”

“Nice, dear. Never in my life, have I gone shopping for bricks!”

Their laughter was disrupted when Mr. Pandey called his wife from the drawing room, “Arre! Bubly’s mother, are you planning on serving tea only after dinner is done?”

“Oh, yes…”


“Uff..i meant, no!  it is almost ready.”

The ladies lighted the stove and put the tea pan on it hurriedly. Mrs. Pandey said, “Mrs. Mishra! Why don’t you go and chat there? At least, enjoy some rest while you are a guest”
Even though Mrs. Mishra would have complained of not getting enough rest back at her home a countless number of times, she said, “Come on! How much effort would it take? Let’s do it together.”

Because of their combined effort, within minutes tea and hot crispy pakoda entered the drawing room. Kids were called and asked to join in. After half-an-hour, Mr. Mishra begged leave of Mr. Pandey, which was promptly refused.

“No, Mishraji. You have come with your choice but you will leave by mine.”

The ladies went to the kitchen for the second time to prepare dinner while the men switched on the TV for some news.

Mrs. Pandey gave Mrs.Mishra some vegetables to chop while she herself washed the utensils.

“Mrs. Pandey! What happened to that crow you were talking about?”

“Mrs. Mishra! it’s a raven. I had mistaken it for an innocent crow. It often comes from nowhere, lands on my head for a moment before flying away.”

“Oh, does it do this to everyone?”

“No, strange enough it does this only to me. The first time this happened, I thought it targeted me because on that particular day, I was wearing a black saree. But no, it teases me everyday, no matter what is the colour of my clothes. As it stands, it’s not much of a problem. But you know Mrs. Mishra, how irritating it can get when this happens to you everyday.”

“Mrs. Pandey, i feel it is not a simple problem. Arrey, don’t you read newspaper? It was in the news last week i remember. There was a South Indian with whom similar incident happened. A raven always dropped shit on his head whenever he left for work. You won’t believe, Mrs. pandey, but this gentleman became so distressed at it that he committed suicide. Ravens don’t bring good luck. So, you better do something about it.”

“Oh, that’s too much! These South Indians are like this only. Very superstitious  It’s nothing serious over here. i think it likes to play with me. For me the only problem is, it always wins.”

As soon as the school-bell rang to mark the end of the day, Bubly ran with the other kids to be among the first one to get outside the school compound. Parents thronged the gate waiting for their children. Stalls selling ice-cream and gol-guppa were attempting hard to get the kids’ attention. Bubly’s father had told her he might get late today. She was waiting for him under the Peepal tree, which stood just outside the gate. With nothing interesting happening around  she looked up towards its trunk. There were some monkeys resting on the branches. A few of them, especially young ones, were in no mood to allow the adults any rest. They chased around one another and created quite a ruckus in the process. She was looking at their world and tried to see the similarity with her own family.

As she was busy staring at the monkeys playing, somebody from the other side threw a stone up towards them. The stone flew towards the top of the tree, missed it’s target and landed directly on her left eye with a soft sound. Everything went dark. She didn’t feel anything. It simply got numb. Everything seemed alright except the people surrounding her. She thought she might still somehow get away with it without telling anything to her mom. She opened her left eye to see how bad it was.
“I am not able to see anything”, she cried out loud and then dejectedly sat on the road.


Bubly lay in bed, with her left eye bandaged. Distant sounds from her mother were reaching her ears. Her mother was in the kitchen. While preparing tea, she was talking to the ladies who had come to see Bubly.

She didn’t feel like sleeping but still she closed her eyes. She had become impatient, what with all these people turning up at home recently. All asked her the same question – how you are feeling, Beta? Quite unlike the uncle who had taken her to the hospital. He didn’t ask any question. He simply pulled her up and forced her to sit on the scooter. A few minutes later, she found herself being attended by a doctor. By the time her parents reached there, she had gotten her injured eye bandaged heavily. When they saw her first, they thought their daughter had lost one of her eyes. Now they would have to live with that forever. Her mother held her tightly and wouldn’t stop crying. The doctor asked her not to worry much and wait for the results of her Reading Test. After half an hour or so, Bubly was asked by the doctor to slowly open her eyes. Everything appeared hazy at first but it wasn’t that bad. After a while, she was well enough to actually pass the tests!

After all the visitors left, Mrs. Pandey tidied the chairs and took the plates and cups to the sink. Then she lay next to Bubly who had already gone asleep. She brought her close and stroked her forehead softly with her hand. The doctor had said it would take at least 15 days before her bandage could be taken away permanently.

She looked up at the window but couldn’t locate the source. She thought it must be the raven, who must be watching them now and gloating. She looked back at Bubly and her muscles tightened.
She couldn’t understand how she convinced herself for doing it. She decided against telling her husband. She was sure he wouldn’t understand. At around 10 o’clock, with her husband and Bubly sent off, she got ready in her black saree. Then she took out the roti. While holding it in one hand, she locked the door with her other hand. While passing through the balcony, she saw the flock of crows cawing and sitting on the neem tree. ‘It must be there.’ She went down the building and approached the tree. The birds went silent on seeing her. All of them were looking at her as if they knew. She too was staring at them. She had planned to keep the roti and come back. But the crows were not that dumb. She waved her roti expecting for some response. She did get one. One of them took a flight towards her. This time she was prepared for it. As the raven neared her head, she ducked down at the right time. On looking back, she was surprised to see it continuing on its original trajectory. Apparently, it had taken a bad aim. She needn’t even have ducked to save herself. It went on flying till it got dangerously close to the surface. It didn’t stop before it hit the ground. It lay there, crumpled in a heap.

She went closer to have a look of the dead raven. Its wings were spread flat with its beak open and black plummage shining in the sunlight.

She threw the roti in the bush nearby. She took it tenderly and deposited it near the trunk.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 951 other followers

%d bloggers like this: