Bipin Chowdhury’s Memory-loss

               Bipin Chowdhury loves to spend more time amongst books, than amidst people. Every Monday while returning from office, he stops by at Kalicharan’s bookshop in New Market to pick up his weekly dose of fiction. He is addicted to racy thrilling novels, whether it be crime fiction or one of those tales of mystery and horror. If people drop by in the evening and stay over till 8pm, he starts getting uneasy and lies to them, making up an excuse like he has not been keeping well, his doctor has advised him to take his dinner and rest early. As soon as the guests leave, he quickly finishes his dinner and lies down to finish a book till late in the night.

            Bipin has been following this routine from God knows when. Today is a Monday like any other. Bipin is at his favourite bookshop, engrossed in carefully reading the first few pages of books which catch his attention. Suddenly he becomes aware that someone is standing too close for his comfort.  He looks up from the book and notices an average looking bloke, smiling creepily at him.

“You don’t recognise me, I guess.”

Bipinbabu was caught off-guard. He couldn’t recollect having met this man before. This face seems completely unfamiliar.

“It’s my bad to expect that you would remember every random person you meet. I know what a busy life you lead.”

“Have we, by chance, run into each other before?” Bipin babu asks.

The stranger is a bit surprised. “Every day for a week! I used to arrange the car for your daily trips in Ranchi. You had come there for a vacation in 1958. Then you took our car to Hondru Falls. My name is Parimal Ghosh”.

“Ranchi?”

Bipin babu felt relieved that it wasn’t him who was forgetting things, rather this stranger had mistaken him for someone else. He had always planned to visit Ranchi, but the plan always got cancelled last minute. He smirked a bit and enquired, “Do you know who you are talking to?”

The stranger’s eyes almost popped out, “Who wouldn’t know you? You are the legendary Bipin Chowdhury!”

Bipinbabu shifted his gaze to the novel at hand and softly corrected him, “But still you are confusing me with someone else. These kinds of mistakes happen sometime. I’ve never been to Ranchi.”

At this point, the stranger laughed out loud.

“What are you even saying? Don’t you remember you tripped and fell at the Hondru Falls? I was the one who finally rushed to you with the first aid kit. You stayed in a bungalow, because you hated the hotel food. You insisted on getting your food cooked by a hired bawarchi. Do this ring a bell? You were accompanied by a friend- Dinesh Mukherjee. Dinesh was staying at his sister’s. Remember that massive argument you had with him about going to the moon. Also, I remember you used a satchel filled with novels. You said that was a must-carry anywhere you travelled to. Am I correct?”

Bipin babu asked grimly, “Which month of 1958 are you referring to?”

“Just after Mahalaya, either the month of Kartik or Ashwin.”

“You are clearly mistaken. That year I had gone to friend’s place in Kanpur during the Durga Puja. Goodbye.”

But this didn’t deter the strange gentleman a single bit. He kept gawking at Bipin babu.

“That’s ridiculous! One of these evenings in Ranchi, I had tea with you at the bungalow. You told me that you didn’t have any children, your wife had passed away some 12/13 years back. You had an elder brother who was diagnosed with schizophrenia. That’s why when you visited Ranchi, you couldn’t bring yourself to visit the mental asylum. You said it triggers memories of your brother- “

When Bipinbabu paid for his books and was leaving the shop, the stranger stayed rooted to his spot, staring at him in disbelief.

Bipinbabu’s Buick was parked next to Lighthouse cinema on Bertram Street. He asked his driver Sitaram to take a different route today, down the side of the river.

As soon as he felt a little calm in the moving car, his mind was beset with numerous confusions. That rogue kept making up stories about him for no reason at all. Bipinbabu has never been to Ranchi, and it’s not possible for him to go there. Why would anyone forget an incident that happened hardly seven years ago-?

Is Bipinbabu falling prey to dementia? The sheer possibility of it made his head spin.

Is he really losing his mind? How could that be possible? He holds such an important position at his workplace. There has been no lapse at work. Even today, he gave a smashing presentation at the board meeting. But then-

How could that person know such intimate details about Bipin babu’s life? These facts about his wife’s demise, his satchel, or his schizophrenic are some of his private truths. But he got the story of the Ranchi visit all wrong. In fact, he deliberately made it up. He is sure that in 1958, he was visiting his friend Haridas Bagchi in Kanpur. The best way to confirm this would be to send a mail to Haridas-

But he suddenly remembered, Haridas has left with his wife on a Japan visit. There was no way of confirming this detail with him. Then again, why should Bipin go into this much of a hassle. He hadn’t committed a murder at Ranchi in the month of Ashwin, that the police are now looking up details of his alibi. Bipin knows for a fact he hadn’t been to Ranchi. That is that.

While crossing Hastings, Bipin babu rolled up his trousers to check his right knee. He can clearly see a scar there but he just can’t recollect how it appeared on his body. He tries very hard to remember if he was part of an accident in the childhood but the scar remains a mystery.

While crossing Charakdanga four-point, he remembers the detail about Dinesh Mukherjee. Dinesh lives close to Charakdanga, on Beni Nandan Street. Should he pay him a sudden visit to confirm this Ranchi incident? What if this was a lie? Bipin knows he can’t handle the caustic humour of Dinesh. He was sure to make fun of Dinesh, if the Ranchi incident was a lie and the rogue had taken him for a ride. Dinesh would laugh on his face, proclaiming loudly that Bipin is finally going mad. No, he can’t handle that kind of an insult.

Bipin returns home. Cooling down with the help of a sherbet, in the cold spell of an Air cooler, Bipin convinced himself that he has been pranked. These were just obnoxious people, out to prey on innocent, hard-working citizens.

By the time, Bipin dozed off with that night’s novel, he had completely forgotten about the man in New Market.

Next morning at the office, Bipin couldn’t focus on his work. That man’s face with dreamy eyes, an unassuming smile and his insistence about the Ranchi trip kept haunting Bipin babu. If he were correct on so many counts, why did he get this incident wrong?

- “two three five nine seven four?”

-Am I speaking to Dinesh Mukherjee?

-Speaking

-Hi Dinesh, this is Bipin. I had a little query. Would you remember if you had taken any trips away from Calcutta in 1958?

-Umm, I think so…let me consult my diary.

-Yes, twice. The first time I had travelled to Ranaghat around February. And then, this you must remember too. Ranchi. We had taken the trip together. But why do you ask?

- Oh, it’s nothing much. Something has come up. I’ll talk to you later.

Bipin kept down the phone receiver and clasped his forehead. His world seemed to be falling apart. Is he really forgetting his past? Under these circumstances, it’s not possible for him to work at office. But how can he take a mid day off? He was known as a workaholic; everyone was in awe of his track record at this office. However, today must be an exception. He left office and returned home by 2pm.

He shut all the doors and windows of his bedroom to calm himself down. Once he was able to think straight, he started devising a plan to get out of this dilemma. If he were really starting to forget things, how was he able to perform so well in the competitive workspace? Whenever he travels out of the city, he is accompanied by his man-servant. But the present bearer is a new one, he wasn’t around in 1958.

Just then, the bearer knocked on the door to inform him about the arrival of Seth Giridharilal Prasad. He was a big wheeler-dealer of the city and it would be very rude to turn him away.  But today, he just doesn’t have the strength to entertain anybody. He conveyed his apology to the bearer and retired to his bed.

Once again, there was a knock on the door and this time he was informed that it was his friend Chuni babu, on an extremely urgent visit. This irritated Bipin to no ends. He knew the exact reason for this urgency. Chuni was his schoolmate and was now calling him because he had recently been laid off at his workplace. Bipin told his bearer that he won’t be able to meet Chuni not just now, but for some weeks.

Suddenly, it struck him that Chuni has been visiting their house on and off, since his childhood. What if he cross-checks the truth of the Ranchi visit with him? Bipin stormed down the staircase and caught up with Chuni as he was about to exit the apartment. Seeing Bipin, Chuni’s face lit up with the hope of some help.

- “Hi, Chuni, sorry I have a very random question for you. I remember that you’ve always had a very sharp memory and you’ve visiting us for some years. Would you happen to recollect any vacation of mine in Ranchi, around 1958?

-Yeah, I think so. Or was it 1959?

-Are you sure I went to Ranchi and not somewhere else?

-Do you have doubts about the destination or the year?

-I am not so sure…

Chuni sat down on the sofa he had got up from. He shot a sharp glance at Bipin and started, “What’s the matter with you? Have you taken to drugs or something? As far as I knew, you had no such bad habits. We’ve always known you a short-tempered person, you don’t have much patience for old friends, but you always possessed a clear head. At least, till the recent past.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me. It must be the work pressure; it’s finally getting to me. I should consult some kind a specialist-

Seeing his friend in this messed up state, Chuni didn’t raise the purpose of his visit and left quietly. Bipin babu sat there for sometime and then booked an appointment with Dr. Paresh Chandra. Dr. Chandra can be considered to be a young professional. He was below forty years of age, he possessed an intellectual disposition and in this short period, he already had a prestigious clientele in Calcutta. When Dr. Chanda heard the facts of the matter, a look of grave seriousness came upon him.

“Mr Chowdhury, I am unaware of any permanent solution for this kind of a problem. In fact, this is the first time I am hearing something like this. If this is a case of short-term memory loss, then I would suggest you visit Ranchi once. That might aid the recovery of the memory. In any case, you seem to be losing sleep over this. So, here’s a prescription for a sleeping pill. A good refreshing sleep can do wonders!”

Whether it was the sleeping pill or the doctor’s consultation, Bipin babu slept peacefully that night. Next morning, he rang his office to inform them about taking a leave and by the evening’s train, he had set out for Ranchi.

As soon as he set foot in Ranchi next morning, Bipin babu was convinced he had never been to this city before. These bungalows, streets, shops, Mora Badi mountains, all seemed unfamiliar. Should he go to Hondru Falls to remove any remaining traces of guilt? He booked a car to go there and explore the place on foot.

Around 5pm, Bipin babu gained consciousness of his surroundings. He had apparently experienced a vertigo at Hondru Falls and fallen on the rocks. Fortunately, a Gujarati family happened to be picnicking close to the spot and they chanced upon his body. No sooner had they revived him, then Bipin babu mumbled, “All is lost. I have been tricked.”

What happened after this, Bipinbabu can’t even imagine or wouldn’t like to imagine.

By next morning, Bipin babu was back in his baithak khana, holding an icepack over his injured head. The bearer had called on Dr. Chandra and he was to arrive any moment. Just then the bearer came in with a telegram, which had the words Urgent written on top of it. Bipin babu paused his preparations and opened it-

“Dear Bipin,

Suddenly coming into wealth at your middle age brought out an ugly side in you. Was it really impossible for you to help out a childhood friend in his dire straits? I don’t have your financial or social capital. What I have is my imagination capital, and I expended that a bit to take revenge on you. That man you met at New Market, happens to be my neighbour. He is a fantastic actor. I was aware Dinesh Mukherjee doesn’t get along with you, so it was easy to get him on board. You must remember how you got the scar on your right knee, at Chandpal Ghat in 1963…?

What else? Now you will recover what you have lost. Meanwhile, one of my novel’s manuscript got selected for publication. I should be able to survive some months with that.

                                                                                                With love,

                                                                                                            Your friend Chunilal.

As soon as Dr. Chandra arrived, Bipin looked up and said, “I am absolutely fine. It all came back to me as soon as I landed in Ranchi. By the way, can you check if my hip bone got dislocated or something. I had a minor accident on my trip. The pain is shooting up since last night.”

(First published as part of the anthology, Ek Dawjon Goppo or A Dozen Stories on 25th Baishakh 1377 or 8th May, 1970)

 

 

 

 

 

Revision

I shift through flakes of memories which remind me of times lost, and which contains our moments crystallized with its imperfections. You have left me with snowflakes, snowflakes of your kindness which showered on me out of season.

The day i met you, i ran to the wishing well and dropped a sack full of old foreign coins, wishing that we get to meet quite often. The coins tossed down the ancient stone staircase and disappeared without a sound. I really wanted us to meet over and over again. I knew that like the coins, you'll flash through my life and vanish like a magician beckoning you over to an unknown realm. But I really wished I get to meet youagain

I was attracted to you. Not because your fish-shaped eyes were restless, looking hither and thither for some love and distraction, not because I wanted to sit by your head and caress your hair while you slept in someone else's arms, not because i wanted to imagine some warmth in your cold palms, not because you leaned against his face in the metro and I kept staring at the lines of my fate. No. Because I felt anxious about life with you.

I will forget the moments we sat opposite each other, measuring life out of coffee spoons, discussing who you should be with, in a romantically inclined fashion. I will forget how you have talked with all those people, simultaneously, people whom I felt jealous of, because I couldn't impress upon you as much as they did. I will forget all this because this might carry on and I might keep on feeling strangely moved,

You told me about your numerous relationships, the way a family destroys itself in an excessive act of love, about how you accepted the ego of men who brushed past you in thoughtless gestures. In all that you told me, I saw a mixture of satisfaction and uncertainty about the things you described. These dual states played out in your eyes, when you looked hard at the delicate porcelain cups or at the traffic that rush past us. I was holding your hand while we were crossing. You were watching death approaching. The roads circled around the old and the new city. We are alrady midway through those dangerous lanes when you stopped, undecided about which way to go. I tugged your hand and decided to sprint. You stood and smiled as automobiles of time hit you.

Futile

I can't complain, really. I knew a person who valued impatience like I did. Who understood that waiting is futile, that waiting only meant things growing cold over time.

I have waited once, I have known people close to me waiting for something to happen. I have seen how the waiting has amounted to nothing. I dont discourage people from waiting. If you have something to hold onto before you start waiting, do wait. Otherwise, dont hang onto promises. There's a major possibility the wait will amount to nothing.

I waited once, for sometime to be told not to wait anymore. I still wait, for new things, new people, new moments, knowing I am only waiting for myself at the end. Because anything outside me, that I am waiting for, doesn't come with the guarantee that something will amount from that wait.

First Chapter

I was barely out of my teens then. It was one of those periods of my family when the fate of the new generation seemed uncertain. I was failing in physics and my brother had received a second class degree in his graduation. I was lying on one side, hiding the phone between by ears and the pillow, hoping that my mother wont notice it. I was waiting for someone to call, when instead of the phone vibrating, i heard stifled sobs. I turned to my mother, asked her repeatedly whether she was feeling alright or did something happen when I was away for tuition. Instinctively, I went to my brother and urged him to do something to make my mother stop crying. My father hadn't heard us till then. I felt confused, even more when I discovered my brother was in tears, asking for forgiveness. I heard that my mother wanted to leave us and go away. It had something to do with her "failure" to raise us properly, about my father never taking stock of his duties as the head of the family. I was standing at the doorstep, guarding it, hoping that that symbolic barrier would make my mother reconsider her decision.

And somebody spoke from behind and I went into a dream...

My brother was born in the year 1982. The year Thomas Keneally won the Booker prize for Schindler's Ark and the census was conducted all over the country. Sex ratios were found to be severely skewed.  The Jadavpur University(where I'd study eventually) campus was under siege. SFI activists from the neighbourhood were pouring in with seriously violent intent. Within five minutes, the girls on the campus linked hands and put up a human chain, vowing not to let the goons in. The girls, not the boys. That day, it was the girls, risking personal injury or worse, who protected the boys.

My brother was closer to my mother than I was or will ever be. The irresponsible younger son takes after the father, so much so that he had once expressed a desire to put down in print, the illustrious life of his father. If you ever come over to our place, you will find the drawing room bearing a distinct mark of my father having inhabited it. Portraits, trophies, plaques, his graduation souvenir from the Royal College, his crystal ashtray tucked underneath the sofa in a desperate attempt to quit smoking. I looked upto him for one of the reasons my mother disliked him. He never told us what to do or not to do. His taboos were unspoken and carefully avoided. His liberal progressive behaviour couched a strange malaise. 

I left the city to discover myself, almost selfishly. I will do it again, despite being reminded of the family values passed on to me. The need to stick together, to grow in society, not in isolation. Can we ever truly isolate ourselves before death? I can't,which is why I come back to this house, the Calcutta house. It was the summer of 2012, when my mother spoke about his problems to me for the first time.

When my mother first found out I was going out with our neighbour's daughter, she dragged me by my ears, from the community market to our little flat. She tried to reason with a "rebel." How our first loves envelope our consciousness, how we spend hours being infatuated with the idea of being loved and how Bollywood manufactures a notion of how love is supposed to happen. It seemed funny and irrelevant back then. All my childhood grievances came rushing back to me. 

I remembered how she had dropped the popcorn when the love scene in Titanic was about to screened in Globe. I only heard gasps, all around, while i meticulously picked up the things someone else spilt. Everytime, a kiss was shown on Star Movies or HBO, the channel was promptly changed till one day, while watching a film with my father, I changed the channel before the "thing" happened. 

My mother dealt her trump card by bringing up the issue of their marriage. I suddenly stopped thinking about my childhood experiences and weighed every word she used. She claimed theirs was an extensive period of courtship, culminating in a marriage, when they suddenly realized they are not meant to live and love under the same roof. My father had never taken my mother out post marriage. I shuddered at the strange parallels that were being setup in my mind. Owing to low pocket money, I had taken out my the-then girlfriend on dates, only thrice in three years. I really hoped I wouldn't take after my father.

My mother was crying again. If I were in her place, I would have either run away or cried every single moment. She told me how my father had neglected her, all his married life. He didn't have other vices, he was always a godly figure to the outside world. She lived in his shadow, he-a flame which disregards what feelings live or die in his shadow. He likes spending time with his guy friends than my mother. I used to see my mother going out for films or plays, alone. She often asked me to accompany her to the plays, explaining how I might enjoy it all. Who knew I'd evolve into a theatre addict. My father never read a single story book or watched a single film after his college days. He has survived on an unhealthy diet of three bengali daily and four different news channels, for some 20 years. He has been a stark contrast to Ma. Only once I went to the book fair with him and he gave me a total of 10 mins to choose the book I want and leave as early as possible. My mother held my hand, in queues outside bookstalls as I grew up poring through the books she thought I'd enjoy reading. 

My father's malaise was that  he never discussed things which seemed alien to his own culture. His beliefs had to be our beliefs. We were to laugh with him when my mother screamed and shouted at the cook or when she squabbled with the domestic help for bungling her work. We never had a male domestic help. But my father sometimes helped with cooking. Sometimes, when my mother was ill and couldn't get out of bed, baba cooked for us and Ma took care of herself. Baba seldom asked Ma whether she was feeling better or if she needed any medicine. Strangely, I followed my father's precedence and didn't ask her anything. Are doctors supposed to take care of themselves, counsel their own psyches, heal their own scars?

On Christmas eve this December, after shutting the doors and windows to the mosquitoes and the Yuletide spirit, I ventured to switch on the light in my parents' room. Ma was sitting up, with her hair open, leaning on one side, looking at my father. My father had turned his head to look at me. In my mother's hand was the machine to draw blood from my father's hands and test his blood sugar level. They were lying under one blanket.

Ma wiped her tears after telling me about baba's neglectful nature. I confessed to her that i might have inherited some of that attitude. Then, almost in a confiding tone, she whispered,

"Ever since you and your brother left for work/studies, your father and I started sleeping in the same room. I hope you don't mind."

Boro Din

Aaj amader borodin. Shob cheye shahoshi meyetar barite olpo decorations, khoob grand kichhu na. 

Shokol opekkhar ei shesh holo. Ajo bujhlo na. Kyabla prithibi, kobe tumi jege uthbe.

Shomoy Kate Boro stobdho akroshe

ghumeri nirghume khon

shalik basha khoge harano nil deshe 

na jene ferari e mon

Shokale bikele 

utheroj okale 

gole male fack tale 

bashe jhule behale 

aj nei kal nei mal nei

ghure ghure gal dei 

akashe batashe 

mukhkhana fakashe 

tai bujhi eka she 

mone mone vabe she 

shokale bikale okale 

tale tale bus e jhule behale

ghur ghur fur fur

nake hawa shur shur

lagie bagie 

lokjon ragie 

tikatoli baddae 

oli goli addae

bokabe thokabe 

shudhu die cha khabe

roj roj khoj khoj

je bojhar shei bojh

dim poch

Bhalo thakben :)

In between eggnogs.

I write as Brandon today, Brandon Sullivan. I write about what happened when after I met that woman on the metro, passing through 28th Street.

I have had a problem of failing to get intimate with people. As far as you remember me, I live for fleeting encounters, brief meetings, and I stress the importance of timely departure. But you know something, I was always waiting for something to happen. Much like Alain Leroy who couldn't stem the fire within.

I am glad I met Alain before he read Rigaut and pulled the trigger. Alain told me certain things which made me stop and take stock of things.

Alain was trying to avoid the responsibility of adulthood.
You used to say, "Its hard to be a man. You have to want it."
I found him obscure them. I was surrounded by stereotypes of masculinity, in every direction i stared. Maybe he meant man in the sense of the elder state of a child?

Alain was a victim of his habits. He never could stick to anything for long. Which is why him talking about masculinity seemed unprecedented. He used to speak my mind's words, "Women still find  me fun and nice. But thats not enough. I have no hold over them. And yet it is through women, I have felt some hold on life."

These words, this realization will haunt me through my life. It is an acceptance of the fact that not just through women, I have felt some hold on life, only in relationships. I tried to run away and take care of myself. I still can, I am self sufficient. But I dont just live for material satisfactions. I wish I was not this weak now and the cognac is still not having its effect.

But which relationships are the ones which have made me feel a bit in control of life, have lent otherwise routine things a sense of purpose? I dont think I'd be able to select them out.

This is about the bravest person I've ever met.

I call her that because she is not cynical, unlike the rest of brave people I have known. And yet, I can't accuse her of having loose morals or none of it. She is a religious person. She belongs to a family which knows how to live passionately, which believes in the value of sticking together despite realizing the futility of it. Sticking together can be fatal, if we dont respect the people who dont leave us, who remain by our side. She has doubts whether she'll stick around if she finds an opening out of the cyclical violence she witnesses everyday. Somethings have a future, they need to be provided for, sometimes from a distance.

My friend loved Alain. Alain, who left back a note saying-

I am killing myself because you didn't love me, because I didnt love you. Because our bonds were loose. I am killing myself to tighten them, to leave you with an indelible stain."

One and a Half Years

In the year 2011, I shifted to Delhi for starting a new phase in my life. Unconsciously, I was celebrating the centennial anniversary of the shift of Capital from Calcutta to Delhi. This post is being written as I soar through the smog enveloping Northern India at 6am on 5th January, 2012

[Aside]

a) In Delhi, I stay quite close to the site of the historic Kingsway Camp. Its still an unique canvas of the multiethnic fabric of India, with students and immigrant labourers and wild animals coexisting in harmony.

b) GoldFlake Exotic Orientals, part of their Centenniel Series, has just been launched in New Delhi. Its good value for money, specially on late night walks with friends, down the historical pathways of  Purani Delhi. However, couple it with a 15 rupees matka phirni,easily available opposite Gate One of Masjid-i Jahān-Numā. You'll suddenly feel thankful about life and whatever little joy you've found in it.

My third semester exams were an experiment in higher academics. I forfeited the hope of scoring well and studied bits and pieces of most syllabi texts. In the end, I found some good essays to take back-

a) A.N. Kaul's Theory of the Critical Romance by Tapan Basu
b) David S. Reynolds' Walt Whitman and Politics:Leaves of Grass
c) Terry Eagleton's The Rise of English
d) Ranciere's Poltics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible
e) Modernity and The Men of 1914 by Peter Nicholls

But all these essays were read when owls are preternaturally active and not having slept for 4 days, I almost passed out on my flight back to my Lazarus Pits.

[Aside]

Lazarus Pits were accidentally discovered by Ra's al Ghul in an effort to cure a dying prince of the sultan he worked for. Ra's al Ghul dug a pit where he discovered the restorative chemical pools that he dubbed Lazarus Pits for their abilities to heal those at death's door.

I dont quite like Nolan's interpretation of the Pits. I rather liked the tubs of healing fluids shown in the 2008 Angelina Jolie starrer Wanted.

In these 18 months, my relationship with the city has undergone transformations which I could never predicted at any point of my life. From getting awed in the presence of the cosmopolitan culture of Delhi to realizing that its not very much unlike the City of Joy to appreciating the subtle shades of either city, its been quite a refreshing mental and physical exercise. I used to consider my experience of any city being a composite of two things-the people I meet there and the artistic wealth or challenge it offers my sensibilities. The experiences are now being governed by a more robust vision. Something like this song-

Dekhechho ki take
Oi neel nodir dhare
Brishti paaye paaye
Tar ki jaano ki naam
Jole bheja mathe
Akashe haath baraye
Megher arale bheshe thaka
Shei rongdhonu ke chay

Have you seen the one 
Who tiptoes through the rain
Along the banks of the blue river
(What's her name, again?)
Through the wet fields
And reaches out to the grey skies
Where she searches for the rainbow
Hiding behind the clouds

The song makes so much sense as the Spicejet pierces through clouds, in the direction of the rising sun. And who would have thought that the otherwise routine experience of 2 hour and 10 mins will be punctuated with a nice up-the-river aerial experience of romancing the City of Joy. So this blog was born when the Pilot announced a detour owing to some ruddering problem and the plane gradually started tracing the path of river hooghly and we witnessed a city generally seen in maps.



I have read in novels how the existence of a river through the heart of Delhi and Kolkata, influences much of the culture on both banks of it. I have never understood its emotional purport though. Today's little detour, aerially nonetheless, put things in perspective. I fell in love with the way the snaking water body made sense of the spectacles of uneven development. I was amused by my distance away from the city, in the same way I flirted with Delhi from the eyes of a perpetual tourist.

 In those little houses down there,
my friend sits staring out of her window
Her text on post modern critical theory
Gathers dust or flutters in response
To a chilly December gale.

She wonders when I will announce my arrival
Or maybe, its just my delusion.
She is probably thinking about what to eat next
Or how to push her mother off an imaginary cliff.