মায়া

সবে ডাক্তারি পাশ করে রায়পুরে সরকারি হাসপাতালে বদলি হয়ে এসেছি ।

গ্রামে তখন লর্ড সিনহাদের জমিদারি । ট্রেনে করে যখন প্রথম রায়পুর পৌছালাম, তখন সূর্যদেব কুয়াশার আড়ালে মুখ ঢেকে রেখেছে । কিছু ভোরের পাখি ছাড়া আর চারিদিকে কোন শব্দ নেই । স্টেশনেই জলখাবার সেরে রওনা হলাম হাসপাতালের উদ্দেশ্যে । ইচ্ছে ছিল জয়েন করে, হাসপাতালে দিনটা কাটিয়ে এরপর গিয়ে সরকারি আবাসে মাল সমেত একেবারে উঠব ।

দপ্তরী কাজ মিটিয়ে যখন কিছু রোগী দেখা হয়ে গেছে তখন জমিদারবাড়ির এক পেয়াদা এসে
খবর দিল যে আমার সান্ধ্যভোজনের আয়োজন আজ জমিদারবাড়িতে হয়েছে । আর জমিদার বাবু হুকুম করেছেন যেন আমাকে সঙ্গে করে নিয়ে যাওয়া হয় । যখনকার কথা বলছি তখন টেলিফোনের ওত চল ছিল না কিন্তু মানুষের আতিথেয়তা ছিল অতুলনীয় । কাজেই, নবাগত আগন্তুককে নিমন্ত্রণ করে খাওয়ানো খুব একটা অসাধারণ কিছু ছিল না । সারাদিন পরিশ্রম করে আমার খিদেটাও বেশ চাড়া দিয়ে উঠেছিল তাই আমি বিনা বাক্য ব্যায়ে জমিদারের আজ্ঞাবাহীর সঙ্গে জমিদারবাড়ি উপলক্ষে রওনা দিলাম ।

রাস্তায় যা দৃশ্য দেখলাম তাতে মন প্রাণ জুড়িয়ে গেল । লক্ষী সরোবরে তখন শীতকালের কিছু পরিযায়ী
পাখি জটলা পাকিয়ে মেলা হইচই করছে । যেন পাখিদের অর্কেস্ট্রা প্র্যাকটিস ।স্ফটিকের মতো স্পষ্ট
জলে তখন সূর্য অস্তের নৈসর্গিক মুহূর্ত প্রতিবিম্বিত হচ্ছিল । সেটা দেখে আমার সারা দিনের ক্লান্তি কোথায় বাষ্প হয়ে উড়ে গেল ।

আত্মীয়-স্বজন

আমরা যখন ছোট ছিলাম তখন আমাদের বাড়িতে কেউ এলে মা তাকে ভাত না খাইয়ে যেতে দিতেন না, সে যত দূরসম্পর্কের আত্মীয়ই হোক না কেন ।  এর মধ্যে তুলনামূলক যাদের অবস্থা বেশি ভালো ছিল না তাদের কিছুটা জোর করে- আরো বেশি বেশি করে খাওয়াতেন ।  আমরা জানতাম যে হয়ত অনেকদিন তার ভালোমন্দ কিছু জোটেনি, তাই ডাল-ভাত-ভাজা-তরকারি-মাছের পর অনেক সময় মা দোকান থেকে রসগোল্লা-পান্তুয়া আনিয়েও  খাওয়াতেন ।  মাকে তখন আমার খুব ভালো লাগত ।  

এমন একজন দূরসম্পর্কের আত্মীয় ছিল যার ভীষণ চুরির বাতিক ছিল ।  দামি গয়না টয়না নয়, খুচরো টাকা পয়সা বা ইমিটেশন জুয়েলারি কিংবা চুলের ক্লিপ - এসব ছোটখাটো জিনিস তার যাওয়ার পর প্রায়ই হাওয়া হয়ে যেত ।   মা তো একবার তাকে রান্নাঘর থেকে পেঁয়াজ চুরি করতেও দেখেছিলেন ।   আমি মাকে জিজ্ঞেস করতাম যে,’ তুমি ওকে কিছু বলো না কেন?’ মা তখন খুব গম্ভীর হয়ে বোঝাবার চেষ্টা করতেন যে তার প্রয়োজন আমাদের থেকে বেশি ।  আমাকে সান্তনা দেওয়ার জন্য বলতেন যে, ‘আচ্ছা, আগামীবার তুমি একটু চোখে চোখে রেখো!’

কিন্তু এরপরও সে এলে মার ব্যবহারে কোন ত্রুটি থাকত না ।  আমি তখন বুঝতে পারতাম না যে কারোর পরিস্থিতির জন্য সে পুরোপুরি নিজে দায়ী নাও হতে পারে ।  তার অনেক চাহিদা থাকতে পারে যা তার পক্ষে পূরণ করা সম্ভব নয়  ।  তখন সে অন্যের জিনিস চুরি করার মতলব করে ।   কিছুটা হয়ত অভ্যাস হয়ে দাঁড়ায় ।  না হলে আলু-পেঁয়াজ-লেবু এসব না বলে ব্যাগের মধ্যে কে ঢুকায় ? 

যখন কাউকে দেখে মনে হয় যে মনের দিক দিয়ে তারা কত দরিদ্র, কত বিকারগ্রস্ত- তখন ছোটবেলার কথা মনে হয় - হয়ত তার পরিস্থিতির জন্য সে নিজে দায়ী না।  হয়ত সে সারাটা জীবন অন্যের জিনিসের প্রতি লোভ করে কাটিয়ে দেবে।  এখানে ক্ষতি খুব একটা হয়ত আমার হচ্ছেও না।  কিন্তু সবাই জানে কার মনে চোর। সে হয়ত নিজেও জানে এবং মনে মনে নিজেকে ধিক্কার দেয়।  সকল পরিস্থিতিতে মানিয়ে নেওয়া সবার পক্ষে সম্ভব না।  কিন্তু নিজেকে বারে বারে লাঞ্চিত করাতে কি সুখ আছে তোমরা বলতে পারো ?

Us, Together

There are a thousand ways we fit perfectly 

Like the way your lips feel on my lips,

When you hold my hands,

When I rest my head on your chest.

When you can tell what is going on in my mind;

When I know exactly what you are talking about 

Even before you say it.

You intertwined with me -

And the fireworks that happen.

Even after a thousand times

It feels new every single time.

You waking up to feel my side of the bed 

With your hand to see if I am still beside you.

We walked through hellfire, my love,

And came out unscathed.

It has made us fearless.

We are so clear of the path ahead-

We are meant to be together.

The symphony we create is divine!

Everything else is just background noise.

Multiverse

In one world,
I married the first man I fell in love with
And lived my life thinking that I am not good enough
I slipped through the cracks in the floor
And walked on my tiptoes around him
Trying to stay invisible
So as not to arouse his anger
At the unfairness of having to live with something subhuman like me.

In another world,
I made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man
But I learned early
To never value the happiness of someone else over my self-esteem.
So, I toiled hard to become someone with worldly success.
But I lost faith in love and in human connections.
I guess I lost there too.

In my ideal world,
I waited for the right person to sweep me off my feet
Sure, I made a few mistakes here and there-
But that did not deter me from believing in the best of people
And the possibility that I too could find happiness.
Like a self-fulfilling prophecy
It came to life
I dreamed my ideal world into existence.
It is possible to have it all
Only if we have the courage to believe.

Or maybe I have lived all these lives
In just one life.
And if you saw me
You couldn’t say which one was me living through what.

In love with the sea

The sea is a big tease
It sends out its waves to touch me

I think it wants to play
But it is just its nature to reach out

It wants to embrace the land
I am just in the way.

Nevertheless, I stay on.
Welcoming the rushing waves to my bosom.

Letting it hit me as hard as it wants.
I stay on till I start smelling of the sea.

Exhausted,
Fearing that another embrace could drown me-

Slowly, with unsure steps
I head back to where I sleep.

Someone else takes my place.
And she plays with the same belief.

‘You are mine,’ she chants like me.
I smile as I walk away.

The sea is like a promiscuous lover-
Who gifts you with only heartbreaks.

The beauty of some relationships is that
they do not last.
Because if they did,
They would have killed you.

সঙ্গীতা

আমার সকল কৃতিত্বের পর একরাশ দীর্ঘশ্বাস হানা দেয় বারে বারে । নিজেকে বোঝাই শুধু -একা থাকাটা কি অন্যায় ? একজন সফল নারী কেন পারবে না একজন সফল পুরুষের মতো মাথা উঁচু করে দাঁড়াতে? কেন কানাঘুষো, ফিসফাস ? দেহের রন্ধ্রে রন্ধ্রে সেই ফিসফিস নাগপাশের মত পেচিয়ে ধরে । প্রাণ বুঝি এই যায়, সেই যায়।

এতদিন তোমাদের মনোরঞ্জন করেছি আমার গান শুনিয়ে । সেই ললিতকলার মান রাখ অন্তত । কেন অনুষ্ঠানের শেষে চোখের লালসায় একে একে আমার ব্লাউজের বোতাম খুলে দিতে চাও ? আশীর্বাদ করার ভান করে আমার পিঠে হাত বুলিয়ে ব্রায়ের স্ট্র্যাপ অনুভব করার চেষ্টা করো? কি করে সাহস হয় তোমাদের ? আমি বিবাহিত না বলে?

আমার শুভ পরিণয় হয়ে গিয়েছিল আমার ষোল বছর বয়সে । মনে মনে তাঁকে আমার স্বামী স্বীকার করেছিলাম । তিনি আজ নেই । শুধু তাঁর দেওয়া সুর রয়ে গেছে ।

তোমাদের মত অসম্পন্ন পুরুষ যখন আমাকে লিপ্সার চোখে দেখে তখন আমার ঘেন্না হয় ।এই নারী জীবনের প্রতি বিতৃষ্ণা হয়।

ভালো লাগে একটা নিষ্পাপ জিনিসকে এভাবে নষ্ট করে দিতে ? কি শাস্তি দেব তোমাদের - নীরবতা ছাড়া ?

Ad lucem

Exfoliate your identity.
It is not set in stone.
You can wear it or tear it out into a crumpled mess
Along with other identities that didn’t quite fit you.

Your body, gender, set of beliefs and disbeliefs,
Your most characteristic dogma-
Nothing is truly you.

You die a different person
Than who you were born as.
From helpless to capable.
From darkness to eternal light.

The Good Wife

What did you expect I will be?

A good, obedient girl who opens her mouth and spreads her legs when and only when you want her to?

Someone who takes your abuses like she were grateful for any kind of attention she receives?

Your girl Friday who keeps track of your unwashed underwear and unpaired socks?

A woman who becomes more invisible every time you flirt with other women in her presence.

A womb for rent- for you to put an offspring and massacre it if it is a girl.

Because your greatest fear is that monsters like you exist in this world!

Disclaimer: SG asked me to say it is not from my own experience if I read it in an open mic 😂

I know you, I see you

Girl,

I know all your hickies and heartbreaks.
Your secret stash of cigarettes which you resolve to throw every new year but keep it for one last drag.

I know how many times you went to the restroom just to cry at your work because you felt incompetent.

Your alcoholic mother brings home her despicable boyfriends who try to grab your ass when left alone. You just thank your stars that you don’t have to live in the same house.

The jealous friend who secretly hates you but who wears a facade of liking you so that she doesn’t have to give up the benefits associated with you.

The world thinks you have it together but I know how fragile you are and how tired you are to have to put up that show. Just because it is expected of you.

I just want you to know that I know you. And I see you. You are not invisible to me.

I am Kali

I was born of the rage of my mother:
To devour the demons that she fought.

I wore their heads in a necklace
To remind the wrongdoers that no evil deed goes unpunished.

I wage wars against the darkness
Even though my skin is dark.

Blood drips from my lips and the scyther I hold,
My lolling red tongue is the cause of nightmares.

But remember-
I was born because all was not right with the world.
Or else my pacifist sisters would have sufficed.

I was born because there were injustice, hatred, and pillage.
And as long as I see those happening
Another earthly girl will take my form
And bring down her fury upon the world.

If you want a lotus instead of a scyther,
Treat her well.
Your mother, wife, daughter, sister-
She can be Annapurna or Kali.

Writing workshop exercise: Describe a painting

Today, I attended a workshop by Lita Kurth and we had a fun exercise when we had to pick a painting of our choice an describe it.  I think the term associated with it is 'Ekphrasis' ( adjectival form 'ekphrastic') which is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined.

Here is what I chose and what I had to say about it :

Her hair was like flames licking her face and her emerald eyes still like a lake in the mountains on an overcast day. Her lips full and painted brick red. She wore a baggy, mint-green sweater, a woolen cap, and distressed blue jeans. She crossed her arms like she was hugging herself, seeking the comfort she did not find elsewhere. She wanted to remain invisible but she was so conspicuous because of her sadness. It radiated from her like a halo. It did not repel me, it attracted me like a moth is drawn to a candle.  I felt that if I get too close I might singe myself. Is it possible to be attracted and be intimidated at the same time?

I think she is scared of her own thoughts, she seldom speaks. But nonverbal cues say a lot about what she is feeling: raised eyebrows is an interrogation mark, dilated pupils signify surprise and parted lips means that she is receptive to the person she’s talking to.

Beneath her tattoos are buried the marks of abuse. A gift from her mother suffering from drug-induced hallucinations. She was sure she had given birth to the spawn of the Devil. Why else would all her lowlife boyfriends want her daughter instead? The little bitch!

She could’ve given up on life and be dragged into a world of drug abuse and prostitution like her mother. Instead, she educated herself and learn to make music. She spoke through the notes on her violin. 🎻

Gates of Heaven

My flight had just landed in Heaven. I don’t remember taking the flight, but I remember arriving at a jet bridge and walking through clouds to reach the immigration. We scanned our IDs at the kiosks while angels guided us through the process and into the inspection area. There were queues for different categories: natural deaths, suicides, and accidents. I deemed mine an accidental death because the last thing I remember was driving down a cliff and into the sea.

I expected ‘natural deaths’ to be more crowded, but there had been a mass shooting. victims shared their ordeal while we waited. The woman in front of me stood with her two kids who had gone to church with her on a Sunday. An elderly couple had recently celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary and were expecting their first great-grandchild. A fourteen-year-old girl was with her dog. The canine waited patiently by her side. Together, in life and death.

When it was my turn, an angel sitting behind a glass barrier shouted, ‘Next!’ I walked up to him with my documents while he asked me for fingerprints and eye scan. He said very solemnly, ’Our system shows that yours was a natural death. Please proceed to secondary inspection.’

I was confounded for a moment but did as told. At secondary, a couple of bored looking angels processed application forms at snail pace. One angel teased his colleague, ‘You know who takes long breaks when it is peak time? You. That’s who!”

The accused bantered back. ‘Yeah, but I process faster than the three of you put together. And I get you coffee.’ Somehow, that seemed to settle the discussion. An elderly, evidently popular angel walked past me to the front. Everyone shouted, ’Hey Paul’ ‘How’s it going Paul?’ 'You don’t visit us anymore Paul!' ‘Paul, help us with these new applicants!'

Paul remarked,’ I am old now. It is up to the new blood like you to take care of the fresh ones.’

I realized that we were always referred to as ‘fresh’ in angel lingo like we were just stacks of meat walking around. Heaven might be awesome, but it is a rude place.

Another angel with a swag walked in and moaned,’ It smells raw in here!’

Someone mouthed, ’Train Wreck.’

I waited until someone called my name. She looked at my documents and said, ’Your papers are in order, but you have assigned an incorrect cause of death. You didn’t die of drowning or from a car wreck. Your heart stopped before your car made an impact with the water.’

I don’t know if that new information had any value. I was in Heaven, irrespective of how I had died. Now, if I got free lattes on Thursdays, it would make sense. But no.

I had a feeling that Heaven was not all that it was touted to be. It was like one of those tourist destinations you saw on billboard ads. You got all excited, planned your trip for days, booked your tickets and after a miserable flight, landed in a city expecting the time of your life. But you ended up in a shady looking resort with lame organized activities and an all-you-can-eat buffet that you grew tired of after the first meal.

She asked if I had any preferences for customizing my experience of Heaven. I said, ’Lot of reading material and puppies.’

She stamped my documents and handed them to me as she said, ’Welcome to Heaven!’

I strolled towards the pearly gates, eager to see what lay beyond.

I remember

I remember..

You walking through the snow in the winter of Boston. We were poor graduate students who seldom had the money to go on dates. Sometimes, we went to the movies together. You bought the tickets while I got the popcorn. We shared a buttery or caramelly kiss depending on the flavor. Then we burped from drinking too much soda and laughed.

We were young and in love.

Letter from a Leaf

I attended a writing workshop yesterday at The Arsenal by Lita Kurth, the co-founder of Flash Fiction Forum, San Jose. We did several exercises, one of which was to pen down either an autobiography of a leaf or a letter from a leaf. I chose the later. I would like to share the first draft with you.

Dear Ma,

It has been a while since I last saw you. After the gardener had pruned some of our sisters with his gigantic shears, we lay on the ground for hours in the scorching heat. Some of us crumbled and gave up. But Tessa and I kept hoping for a spot of rain.

A young woman with purple hair picked us up and took us home. She put us on her writing desk and started sketching details of our anatomy. Occasionally, she touched or smelled us. We were delighted to be there.

But soon her art project ended, and she threw Tessa away. I did not see her after that. The woman put me in one of her notebooks, and now I live across one of the poems she wrote about love. One day, I saw her weep. Her teardrops fell on a few lines of my neighboring poem and smudged a few words. When she closed the notebook, I got a black stain. But I don't mind. I had seen the woman when she was most vulnerable, and I think it is a privilege.

Don't worry about me. I'm living beyond the lifespan of my other siblings who fell to the ground the day we were pruned. Sometimes, it makes me feel guilty. But I think you'll be happy to know that I survived.

Your loving daughter,

Gina

*

Version 2 (edited to add more details)

Dear Mom,

It has been a while since I last felt your warmth and strength that comforted me during dark stormy nights. After the gardener had pruned some of our sisters with his gigantic shears, we lay on the ground for hours in the scorching heat. Some of us crumbled and gave up. But Tessa and I kept hoping for a spot of rain.

A young woman with purple hair picked us up and took us home. She put us on her writing desk and started sketching details of our anatomy. Occasionally, she touched or smelled us. We were delighted to be there. Everything in the room was purple- the lampshades, the curtains, even little yarn balls that hung from the ceiling.

But soon her art project ended, and she threw Tessa away. I did not see her after that. The woman put me in one of her notebooks, and now I live across one of the poems she wrote about love. One day, I saw her weep. Her teardrops fell on a few lines of my neighboring poem and smudged a few words. When she closed the notebook, I got a black stain. But I don't mind. I had seen the woman when she was most vulnerable, and I think it is a privilege.

Don't worry about me. I'm living beyond the lifespan of my other siblings who fell to the ground the day we were pruned. Sometimes, it makes me feel guilty. But I think you'll be happy to know that I survived.

Your loving daughter,

Patia

The Other Radha

Krishna was reigning supreme in Dwarka with Rukmini. The divine engineer Vishwakarma had built a golden city on the right bank of River Gomti. Dwarka, meaning 'the gateway to Heaven' was fit to be the abode of the Gods. The outer gates of the fort opened to the sea. In the rays of the setting sun, it looked like the flames of Agni Dev (The God of Fire) had risen from the sea to create a magical realm. The citizens prospered, and so did the city. Mansions made of the finest marble had doors and windows embellished with gold, silver, and precious gemstones.  Peacocks danced to their delight next to ponds filled with fragrant lotuses.

But Krishna was not happy. There was a hounding feeling that he had forgotten something. Something important. He had forgotten his promises to Radha.
*
Radha sat on the banks of River Yamuna in Vrindavan, lost in the thoughts of her beloved cowherd. It had been years since she had last seen him, but the sound of his flute still filled her mind and her heart. Occasionally, she danced to music only she could hear and embraced tamal trees thinking it was her dark-skinned beau.

The Gopis could not bear her plight anymore. Latika, Vishaka, Chitra and the others loved Krishna with great devotion, but they also knew that Radha was special. She would wither and die if she didn’t see her Lord soon. They convinced her to go to Dwarka to meet him.

Radha: But will he remember me?

*
In the sabha (courtroom), Krishna barely recognized her. The lusciousness of her youth drained in years of solitude. No shringar (grooming). She looked like a flower the gardener had taken great care to bloom but had then forgotten all about her.

Radha appealed to Krishna, ’Lord, I am an unfortunate woman from Vrindavan. My Lord has forgotten me and I have no means to live. Let me be your dasi (servant) and live the rest of my days in peace. I promise to ask for nothing more than Your Lordship’s happiness.’

Krishna smiled benignly at the strange request of the strange woman. Radha commenced serving Krishna and Rukmini in the palace. Sometimes, she stole a glance of the Lord and smiled. Content just to be near him. How enthralling his smile was! It made her feel that there was no pain in the world. No sadness, no grief, no illness. He is Manohar after all. He steals hearts with his smile.

But with years of intense hard work and a broken heart, Radha fell severely ill. When she realized that she had very little time to live, she embarked upon a journey to the banks of Yamuna of Vrindavan.

Krishna, missing his favorite dasi, got to know that she had left the palace for her home.
He remembered something from the days he was a young cowherd. The sounds of the anklets of a fair maiden. The companion of his Raasleela.

He commandeered a chariot and started in the general direction of Vrindavan, his childhood home. He found her lying under a tree, breathing wearily. He ran down to her side, took her head in his lap while tears rolled down his eyes.

Krishna: Why didn’t you tell me Sakhi?

Radha smiled faintly as her vision blurred with tears.

***

This is a take on one of the most revered lovers of Hindu mythology- Radha and Krishna. It is said that Radha spent her last days waiting for Krishna by the River Yamuna. What if she had gone to Dwarka to see him. Would it have been any better?

I had fun imagining it. Hope you liked reading it.

Loss (flash fiction)

The kid would have been three years this August.

I still remember the day when my Obstetrician/Gynecologist examined me with great patience and explained what I saw on the screen: 'There’s no heartbeat. It is not alive.'

It took a while to sink in. 'Are you sure?' My husband asked.

The doctor appeared slightly offended,' I have never given a wrong diagnosis in 25 years of my career.'

He had a right to feel hurt. He was the Chief Ob/Gyn in a reputed hospital and a philanthropist.

I was eight weeks pregnant and had known of its existence since the sixth week. The pregnancy test showed a 'plus' on the strip and at once fear, incredulity, and anticipation paralyzed me. I showed it to my husband, aware that we were not ready for a kid. We hadn't talked about it. He jumped with joy, hugged me, and started kissing me like I had given the best news of his life. I sighed with relief. He seemed happier than I was.

But soon, I started feeling strange. I didn't 'feel' pregnant, even though the hormone levels in my urine did. I started dreaming of dead relatives and grew increasingly superstitious about it. My late grandma asked to see my baby in my dreams. Was she preparing me to let go?

The doctor gave us some time to mourn and left the room. My husband remained stoic, hugging me while I wept. Then he took me to my salon appointment. I had a long-due haircut and a pedicure. I let those people work on me without really enjoying it. They knew something was wrong when they saw dry tears on my face. I didn’t want to explain. I painted my nails blue.

Later in the evening, he took me out to a concert we had been looking forward to for months. I wanted to skip it, but he insisted that we should go. I slept through the first half of the show when the supporting band performed the opening act.

Soon Muse took over and started singing ‘Unsustainable’. When they sang ‘Hysteria’ I wanted to scream too. It wasn’t sadness anymore; it was rage. The splendid lasers and visual aesthetics evolved with every song, sometimes into a stock market ticker, at others a roulette wheel that selected ‘New Born.'

He reminded me that it was my one of my favorite songs from the movie Haute Tension. I couldn’t remember it. I felt tired and wanted to leave for home. The smell of beer and the sweat of the crowd- everything got mixed into an overpowering odor that choked me. There were still a couple of songs left when I urged to leave before the crowd broke out of Oracle Arena.

We drove back home, and I called my mother, talking only about the concert until she asked ‘What did the doctor say?’ I was hoping to stall the news till she reached home from work – it was just past noon in India. But I told her anyway. I can’t lie to her. She kept quiet. Maybe it was better that she was busy when she got the news.

At night, before going to sleep, I talked to 'it' out of habit. I knew it couldn’t listen then; it couldn’t listen now. But I had to tell it I loved it through the two weeks I knew it. However, I had to let it go.

Awakening (flash fiction)

I found myself walking on an avenue. There were flaming Gulmohar trees in full bloom. It must be spring. Strangely, I couldn’t remember waking up in the morning. It felt like I had been walking forever. I was going somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where. The street seemed familiar. I had walked here before.

I crossed a soccer field and a school. Then it dawned on me that it was my school! Years ago, I had moved out of my hometown for a job. My parents still lived here. I hadn’t seen them in a while. My father did not talk to me. He wanted me to join the family business, but I wanted a life of my own. There would always be my younger, much wiser brother to carry on the legacy. Now, walking through those old, familiar places I was reminded of it.

Working for someone else wasn’t considered the epitome of success in my family. The radio silence from my father was just his way of negotiation. Sometimes, I talked to my mother. At the end of our conversations, she always begged me to come back. She would say, ’You know your father. He will welcome you with open arms. Visit us just once.’ I always pretended not to hear her.

Today felt different. I don’t know how but I was home. And I was going to meet them. I crossed the bridge over the little river that was a torrent in monsoon. Everything about this place was like that- unassuming until the right time. Then you’d be surprised by the sheer strength of it. I was bidding my time too. I was due for a promotion at work that would be a big break. There was an opportunity for getting a professional degree sponsored by my firm. I could be someone they’d be proud of.

Lost in my thoughts, I must have walked miles. I saw the white metal gate of the home I hadn’t seen in years. It looked a bit rusty now. It creaked always. That is how we knew that father was home. We would rush to our study tables. He would look at us contently. Then he would have a bath and his evening tea. Sometimes, I wished he would come to us and talk. Ask us how our day was. But communication was not his strong suit. Once in a while, when he got high on a good scotch, he told us how much he loved us. I wished he’d drink more so that we could talk more often.

I walked on the asphalt pavement and through the rose garden.There were several varieties: Bordeaux, Autumn Damask, Bella Donna, Sofie. Red, pink, yellow, white, and bi-colored. There were some award winning bonsais. I hated them. I felt that it was cruel to prune, graft, and reduce trees to miniatures. Why shunt the natural growth of a living thing just to appeal to visual aesthetics? Why should something that could grow to be magnificent, be content to grow in a pot? If they could speak, they would protest vehemently.

I walked through the front porch. A money plant grew next to his rocking chair. No one else had the courage to sit on it. I tried sitting on it once when I was a kid. It rocked so fast, I was almost thrown out of it. It was like a throne that would accept only the worthy king.

I could hear a whimper, like some ancient pain, afraid to cry loudly. It was as cold as a tomb inside. I saw my mother weeping. My younger brother was crying too. I had a sense of unease.I touched my mother lightly, but she seemed unaware of my presence, engrossed in her grief. For once, my father did not look away. He kept staring at emptiness like he had sensed an invisible presence. I sat down on an empty chair and waited for someone to speak up.

My maternal aunt and her husband rushed into the room from outside. She hugged my mother and broke down too. Then she took my mother away to her bedroom, and the men were left in silence. Uncle always had a way with words, but not today. The anguish seemed sacred and necessary.

After what seemed like hours, he asked my brother: When did it happen?
My brother replied: In the morning, on Mumbai-Pune expressway. A truck container fell over; he died on his way to the hospital.

A suitable girl (Inspired from life)

The mirth of Fate is strange-

She smiles upon you and makes you suffer.

Sometimes, She makes you suffer to see you smile.

My mother wanted to get me married ever since I completed my undergraduate degree. I think she wanted to get me married ever since I started ovulating at the age of thirteen. Freshly graduated, I started a job as an Associate in an e-publishing house. She thought it was of dire necessity that I followed the Laws of Nature, took a husband and bore a child as any proper Bengali girl should do at the ripe age of 22. Sometimes, I wondered how she managed to wait for so many years. Maybe because my father was sensible enough to prevent her from performing her maternal duties. He insisted: Let her finish her education first!

My education was far from complete. But I had a break-up with my long-distance boyfriend. It had meant nothing more than late night phone calls and an elephantine bill at the end of every month. Nevertheless, it gave my mother an excuse to pursue her sole purpose of existence: to get me married to an agreeable Bengali boy.

Surely enough, she used all her social contacts-  the woman who picked trash, our amused neighbors, her concerned colleagues. One of the interested parties was her junior at work. She had a nephew on the side of her in-laws, who was about four years senior to me in school. I knew him by name and vaguely remembered his face. My mother knew that I had only one demand- my husband should be socially presentable. He need not be handsome if he knew how to groom himself and how not to spit when he spoke. Fresh out of heartbreak, your expectations from yourself and your life is lowered dramatically.

My mother judiciously conveyed my secret desire to her colleague who promised to take it up with her in-laws. The guy was a Software Engineer, working in Bangalore, like most other good boys from our town. It was nothing exceptional, which was good. I wanted a man in my life whose goodness moved me. Not the size of the bacon he brought home. Plus, I always knew I’d be a working woman. Together we could always have enough. I found myself wondering- what if he were the one for me? Wouldn't it be a riot if it was someone I knew but had never thought of that way? I let myself dream a little. The kind of romantic thoughts only a girl in her early twenties can imagine: We would travel the world together. Have a charming little house. Maybe a dog- a Labrador preferably, chocolate-colored probably. We would call him Mr. Brown.

It was the little details that gave me joy. My chain of thoughts halted when I learned that they wanted an ‘Engineer' bride. Fair enough, if it was what they wanted. It wasn’t a rejection in the real sense, but I felt it was a bit too much for me to handle in one year. I snubbed all my mother’s future efforts and started preparing to take GMAT for an MBA degree in the US. In the meantime, I started talking to someone who lived in the same city in East Coast where I applied for B-school in the fall semester of the following year.

My scores were decent, and I had a good feeling about my admission. For a while, at least, my mother was more excited about my prospect of going to the US than about my prospects of marriage. I always said to her, 'Let me get established, have a robust career. I will find someone to get married.'

This time she only said, 'Do not wait too long.' Then she lectured me about the various benefits of using contraception, the relative advantages and disadvantages of using the pill or prophylactics if I decided I couldn’t wait till marriage. I wanted to tell her they taught this stuff in Biology class in school. But her energy was so vigorous that I thought it was better to let her spend it talking than let her try something even more dangerous for my well-being.

I graduated a valedictorian. I have a job that pays me more than a lot of guys earn back home or even in this country. Though I never mention it, I am secretly proud of the fact. I feel I have done something I can be happy about, even though, by no means have I arrived.

The boy from my B-school town finished his doctorate. We dated for a few years before we decided to get married. My mother was beaming with joy on the day of our reception. Her fear that I was a lesbian bowed to celibacy or secretly married to my butch proved unfounded.

Before I suffered the horror of hearing about the birds and the bees and circle of life, my husband stole me away after the reception for our Subho Ratri. Our bed was a sculpture of flowers. God! Some people sure know how to make a big deal out of a wedding! All I wanted was a quiet ceremony with close friends and family. But thousands of invitations were sent out and accepted.  My jaw hurt from smiling at strangers I didn't know from Adam and would probably never see again in my life. After my mother-in-law had chased everyone out of our bedroom and my husband had bribed every distant cousin to stay away for the rest of the night, we retired to bed. We concurred, 'Thank God it is over!'

In a few days’ time, we were back in the US and had resumed work. We were happy together, and marriage didn't seem like such a bad idea after all. In fact, I would now recommend it to others. Fast forward a few years, someone messaged me on Facebook,"Humans of New York is a good page. I started following it from your likes." It was him! The-senior-I-was-supposed-to-marry-whom-I-didn't and was better off for it because I probably wouldn't have considered getting a professional degree if I had married too early.

I was not even sure if he knew about me.

P.S. A word of advice to all the Mrs. Bennet version of Bengali mothers: মেয়েকে ভাল পাত্রী নয়, ভাল ছাত্রী করুন।