Posts Tagged ‘West Bengal’

Samarth Malik received the letter late evening. He was perplexed. The letter read, “From Mrs S. Misra, Konnagar, Hoogly, West Bengal.’’

Mrs. S. Misra? Who could it be? He tore open the letter. It read:

“Dear Mr Malik,

My late husband, Saurabh Misra was your friend. He died 12 years back. He has left a portion of his will in your name. I had been searching for your address all these years and have found it only recently. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this letter and let me know how soon can you come and accept your gift.

With sincere regards,

Mrs. Sabari Misra.’’

Samarth stood surprised for a long time. Saurabh Misra? Saurabh? In his last 41 years of his life he couldn’t recollect having met anybody by that name. A friend? He sat down on his armchair and began recollecting his college days. Saurabh… Saurabh… Who could it be who would leave a portion of his will in his name? He couldn’t remember.

He tried to remember his Naxalite days. Those days of fire — which he wanted to wipe off from his memory. There were no particular reasons for that. Only that his efforts had proved fruitless. Why only him, the entire movement had proved futile and the best of his mates were killed by the then ruling government.

He survived. There were reasons for that he didn’t want to remember.

Saurabh Misra…? Was he someone he associated during his Naxalite days? Or was he a colleague in his office?

He had emerged after his Naxalite days as a manager of an upcoming private organization. A well-settled organization, which gave him the launching pad for his soaring career in a multinational organization, of which he is a director now. He had built a plush home in the better parts of the city and with his wife and only daughter, had a chalked out a life that he was glad he had bargained for. He prided himself for taking the right decision at the right time.

Saurabh… a colleague? But a portion of will in his name? Strange! Or is he a distant cousin? No. He read the letter again. The lady mentioned that he was a friend.

Samarth decided to investigate the next day. His curiosity took the better of him and he was determined to find out what was this all about. He had been an active Naxalite once and had the grit of a leader. His name was still in the police books and if it were not for the police, his existence would have long been wiped off.

He had been saved at the nick of time. The police had opened fire when they had asked 17 of them to “Run! Run for your lives!!’’ on an open field. They had been promised freedom and were freed from the gloomy cells after a month of gruesome torture. His wrist was broken and his toenails were pulled off. His mates were in no better conditions. All of a sudden one day the Chief came and smiled at them, offering them freedom, at dawn. Thirty of them bundled in one cell; they looked at each other in disbelief.

The dawn came and 17 of them were pushed inside a van, and were driven off. The van reached an open field and they were asked to step down. And then the officer shouted, “Run! Now run for your lives while I count 10!’’

They ran! Samarth ran till his breath began to burst out from his lungs. He didn’t hear when the officer said “Ten!’’ and the three armed guards started firing. He saw his mates falling on the ground, one by one. And then something, a burning hot sensation entered his calf muscle and he fell. He staggered to get up, only falling back with the impact. Then suddenly an idea struck in his mind. He decided to stay motionless on the ground. He closed his eyes and bore the pain. The firing continued for another few seconds until there were no more running figures around. He waited breathlessly for the van to start its engine and drive off. A minute passed by and then two. He opened his eyes slightly to see the van and saw a pair of boots instead in front of his face. He instinctively looked up and saw the officer standing over him with a smiling face…

Konnagar was only a 20 minutes train ride from Calcutta. He reached the small, but busy town at 10:30 in the morning. He took a rickshaw and after several mistaken turns and bends, finally found the residence of Saurabh Misra.My husban'ds last gift

It was a small, one-storied yellow house. A short gate let to a wrought-iron enclosed balcony. He lifted the latch of the wrought-iron gate and clunked on it twice. And then again.

“Who is it?’’ A woman’s eyes peeped from above one of the springs of neat curtains that hung on the windows.

“I am… er… Samarth Mullick.’’

The woman’s eyes looked stoned for a second and then lit up with a smile.

“Oh yes, just a minute.’’

He heard the latch of the door being pulled down. And then he saw the woman come out.

She could barely be in her early 30s and her devastating beauty glowed from her white attire, while she was devoid of any external aid. A touch of helplessness in her eyes struck a node in Samarth’s heart and he wanted to suddenly be the benefactor of an unknown friend’s so lovely a widowed wife.

She smiled. And cupid worked ferociously in Samarth’s heart.

“Please come in. I have been waiting for you for days.’’ Her last words wrenched out from her heart and helpless eyes. Samarth thought about his dried-up wife.

“I am sorry,’’ he said. “I received your letter only yesterday.’’

“Oh! I posted it quite some time back,’’ she led him into the room.

The drawing room was neatly arranged. With frilled lacy covers on cabinets, supercilious sofas, cane stools and standing lamps, the room swanked in contrast to the woman’s vulnerable appearance. The fact that light had blinked out of the widow’s life ceased to walk in through the door into her interiors. She seemed a happy person inside; her garb of sanctity quietly camouflaging her bubbly youth. She was, as if, waiting for hope to re-enter her foyer.

Samarth sat down on one of the sofas.

“I am Sabari. That’s my husband.’’ She pointed with her eyes at a photograph just behind him.

He jerked his head around. And then he recognized him!

“Oh!’’ He was stunned. Too stunned to speak.

“Care for some juice?’’ She asked.

“Yes… okay…’’ he stuttered. “I wouldn’t mind.’’

“Just a minute,’’ she walked off inside.

Samarth looked at the photograph again. He was not mistaken. It was him! But then his name was… yes! Souvik… Souvik Sarkar.

The woman returned with a glass tumbler filled with an enticing chilled green juice. The tumbler was placed on a tray and covered with a lacy cover. He felt special.

“Please take this,’’ she said, “It’s made of fresh mangoes from my garden.’’

“Oh, thanks!’’ He raised the glass to drink the liquid in one gulp.

“Slowly,’’ she crooned and ended with a smile. “Drink it slowly. Or else you won’t enjoy the taste.’’

“Okay,’’ Samarth smiled. Was anybody else around in this house…?

He took one sip and kept the tumbler on the center table. Then he leant back and crossed his legs. “I don’t understand…’’ He tried to begin.

Suddenly Sabari’s expression changed to being somber. “My husband died in police firing. He was in the Naxalite movement.’’

Samarth nodded sadly, carefully heaving out a sigh of relief in small gasps. She went on.

“We were married for only three months. I was carrying his baby…’’

“Oh!’’ He bent forward and took a sip.

She looked out of the window sadly. “We were in love… we had just met in college. He didn’t want to marry me because he was into this movement.’’ Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Samarth shifted his legs nervously and took the tumbler in his hands. He was now trying to finish the liquid.

“…But I forced him. He had no parents and lived with his widowed aunty in this house.’’ She stopped and wiped her eyes with her sari.

“His aunty died a year back… I am all alone…’’ It was an inviting whisper and all Samarth could do was to shift in the sofa nervously. He felt restless.

“You…’’ he cleared his throat. “Your parents?’’

She smiled and looked at him. “They have disowned me ever since I married Saurabh. I will never go back to them.’’

“And…’’ he hesitated. “Your baby?’’

“Was born dead.’’ She looked up… and her eyes were made of stone.

He felt scared. He sipped on the liquid fast. His head was reeling. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He now wanted to get out of this house fast.

She went on. “You know how my husband died? He was fired, from behind his back. The police tipped one of his mates — this guy from his college. You know he was in the same movement.’’

“Oh…’’ He began feeling nauseated. He gulped down the liquid and finished it.

“Yes. The police tipped this friend of his with a grand job if he could kill him.’’

Samarth’s head started swaying!

She looked out of the window and tears started rolling down her eyes. “They were walking down this lane and my husband was discussing the next day’s plan with him. And then he fired him from behind, point blank.’’ She began weeping openly.

Samarth held the sofa handle and tried to get up. “I must go.’’ His head was swaying and his entire self was burning.

“Don’t go,’’ she pleaded in the same naïve voice. And then came forward and held his head. She began combing his hair with her fingers. “Relax, Samarth, relax… I need you…’’ She held his head on her flat stomach.

Samarth rested his head on her stomach and felt his orgasm reach the peak. He wanted to pull her down on the sofa and make ferocious love to her. He tried to lift his hands but couldn’t.

He looked up at her and she appeared blurred. “I don’t feel well.’’

She knelt down and began caressing his face, “Obviously you don’t. I know you are my husband’s killer. I have been waiting for you all my life. I have kept myself and this house beautiful ever since I learned that you were alive and so well…’’

His head staggered to fall. “I want to go home…’’ he could somehow blurt out. His whole self was burning.

“How can you go home, sweetheart?’’ She held up his wobbly head, holding his face. “I have mixed a deadly poison in your sherbet. You’ll be dead in a few minutes.’’

She held his limp head in her hands and then threw it with vengeance onto the sofa. His whole self fell, twitching slightly near his limbs — a white frothy liquid flowing out from his lips.

She stood up, “My husband’s last gift to you, sweetheart! Enjoy!’’

(This story is inspired from a short story I read when I was very young, can’t remember the source.)

(A short story from my third book and a compilation of original short stories, Whiff of Tempest)

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This is one special year! Maa Durgaa is visiting a green Poschimbongo. And I, being 12,500 kms away on the other side of the Earth, am going to miss all the hype associated with Mawmota Banerjee heralding the goddess in a ‘Green’ land after unearthing numerous skeletons from the ‘Red’ cupboard. Power of shokti, eh?

With Bangla pronunciations creating a sudden new upsurge in the country, I will surely be delighted to make my lips rounded and write in a language that Bengawlees are more comfortable with. Maybe, we can finally get rid of our borrowed accent and slip into the comfort zone of our rotund one. We may even want to launch a dictionary with the right kind of spellings and accent. What say, Maanosh Chawkroborty and Baachi Kaarkaria?

I miss the national hullabaloo concerning Poschimbongo/Bongo/Baanglaa. I wasn’t sure which name came into force until I heard Awmitabho Bawchchon, the other day, pronouncing the name of the state as rotund as possible on KBC. He even translated ‘Lotus Stem’ for one Bengawlee contestant with a rounded, “Dhyarosh”. :O

On a bit of research I found that the esteemed writers may have been more flummoxed if they had done even a wee bit research on the Bengawlee language.
Wikipedia explains: “Bengali or Bangla is an eastern Indo-Aryan language. It is native to the region of eastern South Asia known as Bengal, which comprises present day Bangladesh, the Indian state of West Bengal (read Poshchimbongo), and parts of the Indian states of Tripura and Assam… With nearly 300 million total speakers, Bengali is one of the most spoken languages (ranking sixth) in the world… Barishali (Barishal region), Noakhali, Rongpore, Khulna, Mymansingh, Sylheti (Sylhet region) are major spoken dialects in country. Chittagonian, Chakma and Rohingya are some of the many languages that are often considered dialects of Bengali.” Not counting the Sadhubhasha and Cholitbhasha.

Whew! That was one education for me too! :O

So, now such honored writers like Chawkroborty and Kaarkaria, are even more stumped as to which dialect of Bengawlee they should try to ridicule in their spare times. 😀

I am missing Poschimbongo this pujo, also because I will miss visiting the pandel which features Mawmota’s face as Debi Durgaa. And I wonder how many skeletons will feature in the lighting! I am anxious of the jatra names too: Mawmota elo Khawmotay, Kongkaaler sesh Rokhtobindoo or maybe Teesta ekti Nodir Naam!

May the ridicules continue! May the nation sing all the five stanzas of ‘Jono Gono Mono Odhinyoko Joyo Hay’ with their lips firmly rounded into a circle! 😀

I love a power cut (smugly)! No, don’t ostracize me. Ask Jhumpa Lahiri. Her first short story in Interpreter of Maladies is all about a power cut.

A power cut improves relationships. In this cyber age, a power cut would mean instant sanity. No cable, no laptop, no PC, no internet and no news. The splendid magic of the candles (please don’t forget to thank God if there are no generators) creates a sense of oneness in an otherwise segregated family. With nothing to do, no internet to surf, no TV to watch, no music to play, and nowhere to go out, particularly when the power cut is in the evening, the family have not much to do but to bundle around one candle.

Which means conversation. Which has become a forgotten undertaking. Which means one has no choice but to explore the other person’s mind. And I hope the power cut lasts long enough so that one begins voicing opinions. Which means onset of a debate, a small argument. Which gets heated and fight begins (I smile).

Which is great! I mean, how long has it really been that I have melted into my husband’s arms after a big fight? Not that I want to be particularly graphic. But it’s been a real long time. It’s always his TV first, and then me. Why him? It’s still my electronically empowered jobs first and then my child.

Which is why I love a power cut. We can make shadow figures on the walls if there’s nothing to argue about. We can innovate and bring to life all those long forgotten games like hide-and-seek and dark room. Which means a lot of running about. (When was the last time my portly hubby ran about, I ponder: I don’t remember). Which means exercise.

So the power cut gives us more than one reason to rejoice. And even then, why do we spend mindlessly in buying generators?

With the heat playing havoc, now is the right time to experience at least one evening of blissful, undisturbed and elaborate power cut.

P.S. – The Red Brigade may refer to my article whenever they feel cornered.

Kaberi Chatterjee

(This article appeared in Hindustan Times, on April 30, 2003, in response to elaborate power cuts that was turning West Bengal and Kolkata into a Bengal melting pot.)