Ten stories

I

The world outside is germinating into new strands of hair

I grope, grasp and grapple; water is no receding


I was eaten by a grasshopper when the sun dipped its last ounce in the sea.


breathe, breathe, breathe!

the eyes, letters, touches..stop..stop..stop....


The poor tree sucked the milk from my breasts.

This is not to be read

Hyderabad was gracefully peaceful. And immensely unsatisfying. I lined up in a crowd of a million people waiting to earn a little extra to be able to eat at least once, twice or thrice a week in a spotlessly clean restaurant, served by English speaking waiters and people huming the lines 'I become comfortably numb'. This side of the page has notoriously spaced-up malls and imitations and hearts of wooden mirror walking in empty streets.

The Charminar reminds me of Feluda's preferred brand of cigarette which he invariably used to smoke to discover any new twists in the trick. I wish Feluda lived on, just as we haplessly live and play merry-go-round. This was my first experience with the name Charminar. On the contrary, Charminar lives on as aura less grey iron pillars amid no insect's life with the name Hitex. It was incredible how both could co-exist knowingly it is flip-flopping. It has big roads and streets and flyovers with no meddling to take you to your little chalets faster. A matter of convenience undoubtedly. Too many sumptuous and seemingly happy preoccupations. The sky ends somewhere behind the spaced-up large fort-alike houses, and tall ambitions; you and I barely had a chance to view the horizon.

Sitting on the grasses, received the first splash of green drizzles, over cups of Lucknow was amusing while the parrots continued reading your future. Waking up to dreams of togetherness and those I experientially lived last night and this moment lying on his torso, I realise this is what I wish in my heart and can live so possibly. He has grown to a delicacy in my eyes.

I am a lonely soul, not deserted, not secluded. The bitter sounds and desperation of not being them, of not being able to play guitar, of not being you perturbs my consciousness as I walk down the streets in six, and seven sometimes.

The people who take a ride of merry-go-round with you, the wide, empty roads and the lanes with white and pink houses lined up, the little potions of love you are fortunate to drink in every fading moment of your stay, too many numbers of unrestrained freedom and despair, this is not yet the place to become untamed.

P.S. I will come back again and again to fill up my insatiable hunger, for peace.


A disclaimer. These are the odd fragments from my story called Hyderabad. Might not be akin to yours. Someday you and I, and them will sip coffee over manifold hyderabad.

I can never be enough of you

There is peace everywhere; I am out in the sun

I lost my guide, look where are you going, I am stuck inside a shop.

Travelling between manzil and destination, you ask me, where do I find sunshine?

I am scared when you try to cross Rashbehari Avenue or Liberty

Too many words, fears, desires, anxieties, craving, expectations, deaths and broken hearts went down the spine.

The turbine crafts stories out of wind.

I am trying to swim in the waters called you.

You and I are lost in the game we played.

Hope Joana..

Now that the three colours have successfully cheered together, there is hope, perhaps comes out of desperation, evidently and eventually it is still hope. Not that the lotus failed to provide one of the penultimate hopes to 1.4 billion people (half of that number has voted, for the remaining half hope is yet to reach them), but prematurely it has died. At this juncture, a song comes to my mind, the song which has been ruled out by Supreme Court recently, supposedly it has tinkered our National Anthem. It might have, for the good, however. The decision is ours. Following the lyrics closely, it is of little doubt the song intently tries reiterating Fanon's words that in a new independent country like ours regionalism and racism within the nation state proliferates, all of us at some point of time could not refuse the desriablitiy of speaking/thinking/making generalised ill considerations about other class(es) or region(s) or community(ies) . There seems to be a thin line in believing and judging whether the message of uniting against terrorism, regionalism, racism is good for the general public. The Supreme Court might have taken the liberty of overlooking the content of the message to uphold the law for the sake of law, less somebody tampers the national anthem into a remix. This, yet again, testify to the blatant fact that we continue to see the world and its different dimensions in two binaries. This brings me to closer to annoyance and desperation and I see hope in these three colours. I am sure the people who are at the helm of affairs this time are sensible enough to understand the nuances and subtleties and different shades, not just see the independent object with an objective outlook. At least, they appear to be, perhaps they are seen to be (they were chosen by aam-admi).

I might be devastated and frustrated, yet again, after five years.

hijibiji

I'm amazed and disenchanted..
It has a life to follow...a route to be taken..a manzil to be reached..
Colours have their glory speaking out to humans
I have lost my name and meaning
Mirrors are cleaned everyday with yellow newspapers
Nails are longer and whiter
You cannot separate me from my little hungry wings
I am no more I, me, you, he, she,
I sip cough syrup one, two, three,
The rat is eating the torn and eaten doormat
It once talked to me about its colourful checks, and white
There is life watched and waited for outside the mosquito net and black shoes
I am enchanted and fascinated
To sit on the stairs of the white Catholic Church in Hazratganj
There was coffee to be sipped and conversations to be finished while walking
I have not read Gita, or Bible or Quran
The Whiskey Lullaby sings to you
Read your feet; it has a different story
I died falling from the eighth floor
There were incomplete conversations and desires and arguments
I walked on the river which once talked with the colourless sea in a lonely beach
I bought and sold my portraits and paintings at your doorstep
You will fail hundred times if you search for the meaningless you in my colourless feet
I will sing to you instead bondhu esho jole bhasi dukh bhasanor sukhe..

Dusty Musings

I have been enchanted by life..the zig-zag route..we shelter ourselves under a pink star..childhood calls every moment ..I'm inspired and fascinated in moments...somebody asked me to be myself...I looked for myself...those years, I wore different colours simultaneously indulging in different secrets of attractive people..I was he and she..violet and green..and pink..and black...I walk on confusions and indecisions...chimneys and night lamps..nails get whiter..maddening lamps strike thunder..let it be...let it go...pump your thoughts and emotions..I indulge in the secrets of my life..

P.S. - Those were the curiously sad and entertaining thoughts of my life. Don't indulge in them.

..

Respected Asafuddaulah Nawab,

Your messenger must have been astonished to find this letter in your letterbox. Travelling all the way from earth, the letter must be in tatters by now while changing its hands from one angel to another. I type this letter on my laptop sitting in my room in your city, Lucknow, watching the twilight giving its way to a clear sky moonlit night as I ponder upon, when the messenger of heaven will deliver this letter to you. Your ministers initially, I presume, were a little disrespectful to me. As I walked on the streets and discovered new lanes in turns, I received offensive stares. Too much of freedom is being curtailed here, I concluded. I eulogized the descendents of Shivaji. I thought some exchange programmes can be organized between both the groups. Many a times, the shadow of claustrophobia tried to entangle me as I walked alone on the streets of some beautiful evenings. Back home, criticizing lucknowi adaa and its ways of life was a usual business to do. Two years were spent in sneering at the dwellers and their city. Now the time has set in to move on to some other city leaving the shadows of my footsteps in your guard. I write to inform you that your ministers do administer well in your absence and they deserve to be applauded for still being able to guard the Nawabi traditions. Your forts, Bhulbhulaiya, Bada Imambara, Chota Imambara are still in good shape and have not lost a bit of their charisma. Not to mention, I took real pleasure in trying the Nawabi delicacy and they later on entered my regular menu. My world has been broadened. Perceptions are amplified. I plan to retrace my footsteps perhaps after a score of years spending some beautiful Lucknowi shaam as I will walk down alone in quest of discovering new lanes. I duly apologize to you for being biasedly critical before I could experience Lucknow in its full glory.

Regards,

Arpita Chakrabarty

Lucknow, Hindustan (now India)

2008.