The Harisava street comes alive on a sunday. For that an outsider would say that a Sunday is just an excuse for the Bengalis. But Harisava street is an exception. One of the darkest streets in Calcutta, the Harisava street is in Kidderpore.
Close to the port, Kidderpore historically was inhabited by the fisherman clan. Hence even today the street is mostly inhabited by the lower-middle and lower classes and not to mention the faint smell of dead fish throughout the day. The Harisava street has tall buildings which are no sky-scrapers but are the old chawls built for the british soldiers to rest. The buildings are so high that they cover the sun almost till noon and for the rest of the day a little after noon. And in
one such building lived Dibyendu Bhattacharya and Proloy.
The Vintage writer
--------------------
Dibyendu Bhattacharya looked out of the window, his hand held on to the rustry grill. He was waiting for the 'Jhalmudi' wala to come. Sundays was when he would come a little early than usual. Dibyendu coughed and cleared his throat. He had kept all the empty packets of milk under his bed and his writing table so that he wouldnt have to walk to the bathroom every time to spit the phlegm. He would spit in the empty packets and dispose them once a week.
The Jhalmudi wala arrived at the window. He mixed his spices to produce magic. That is what Dibyendu called him-'The Magician'. The Jhalmudi always tasted the same, not a pinch of spice less or more, just as Dibyendu wanted.
Dibyendu picked up the Telegraph. It pained him when he read through the paper. So much had changed about the paper in the last two decades.Dibyendu had retired as the editor-in-chief of the telegraph in 1988. Since then the standard of news had degraded and the sanctity of the media had been lost.
Dibyendu had not stopped writing though. He was known for his views on politics and his anthology of political essays was widely read and appreciated. Just as Dibyendu finished with his Jalmudi, the bell rang. It must be Joyeeta, his maid who had been with him and taken care of his since his wife had passed away.
As Dibyendu stood up, the bell rang again and then once more. It could not be Joyeeta then. She would wait for him to open the door. It was Proloy, Dibyendu's neighbour. Lean and Nimble, Proloy was the irritating neighbour of Dibyendu or at least that was what Dibyendu thought of him. The irritation had nothing to do with Proloy's attitude but it was to do with what Proloy and his generation stood for. It was something Dibyendu could not relate to and unfortunately every mannerism of Proloy's reflected that standpoint.The other unfortunate part for Dibyendu was that Proloy was a columnist in the Telegraph as well. He wrote a popular column for the youth, the content of which Dibyendu detested. He must have come to borrow a packet of milk, as always, thought Dibyendu.
The Gay Columnist
------------------
Proloy had been living in Kidderpore since he was born. He could not imagine himself living outside. Hence, after he became a columnist at Telegraph and started earning, he shifted within Kidderpore itself. He adored Harisava street and somehow Proloy felt that the darkness stimulated him to write. It was as though his creative stimulus reacted to the faint luminiscence than anything else.
Though there was one more reason to move. Since his childhood, Proloy was a loner. Both his parents were highly read and had a bent towards literature and there were no marks for guessing Proloy's professional bent. Yet, somehow Proloy was different. He would never go out and play and rather go out with his mom to buy clothes, vegetables and loved it when she bargained. He loved watching his mom putting on make up. He always felt that men were deprived of a lot when it came to fashion. As years passed by, Proloy realised that there was a woman inside him that yearned to get out but could not because of social stigmas
attached. Worst things happened when he hit upon guys and could not control it.
Revealing the same to his parents had caused a huge hue and cry. His mother was supportive but lost hope when she realised that it was not a passing phase. His dad had threatened him and told him that he should get out of the house.And that is what Proloy did. His columns gained popularity and he soon became one of the leading columnists in the Telegraph.
He was proud of it and hoped that his parents thought the same. Then one day, tragedy struck when he heard of his mother's death. His 'maa' was no more. He was shattered. For once he thought his 'baba' would call him back. It never happened.
A Birthday forgotten
--------------------
It was Proloy's birthday and he wanted to see his Baba once and get his blessings. Every year Proloy would go with a cup of Kheer to his Baba's house. His ears would yearn to hear a wish and his shoulders would warm up for a hug. The ego though was too huge and the shame too damning for his father. Today was yet another birthday and there was yet another hope. He rang the ball. He rang it twice and then again. The door opened. The disgruntled Dibyendu looked on.
"Eei samanya kichu apnar jono" (This is something for you), said Proloy. His father did not utter a word.
"I thought it was Joyeeta", said Dibyendu. "Hows is work and all?", he asked.
"Good. My columns are being appreciated by everyone", said Proloy.
"No heart and no soul. Your generation is about quick bytes and short cuts. They will never understand true writing", said
Dibyendu skeptically. "And by the way, how has the taker become the giver. What is this kheer for?".
"Have you forgotten Baba? Its my birthday today", said Proloy in a strangely innocent way.
Dibyendu stopped walking. It was his son's birthday and he had forgotten. His Tuktu's Birthday. Thats what he called him when he was young. Thats what he named him when he was born. His heart felt heavy. He turned around. He put his hand on his head and said, "Happy Birthday Son. Hope you have great year ahead."
Proloy was hoping he would say more but Dibyendu kept the kheer and did not say a word. Proloy understood and took leave. As the door closed behind him, he could feel his eyes turn misty. He wished things were normal. He wished his baba understood. He wished so much that his baba would call him back.
Dibyendu on the other side was experienceing the same. Pain, emotions, guilt. He wanted to forgive his son but somehow could not. He felt ashamed of his son for what he was and that ashamed him about himself.
Life had to move on. Inside the chawls of the Harisava street lived many Dibyendus and Proloys and yet the street looked and sounded ecstatic on a Sunday.
V.V.Vikram
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
To Ayesha...with love
The story is dedicated to all those women who are trapped by traditions and yet smile only to defy this world. It is also a message to women who undervalue the essence of freedom and love.
Dear Ayesha
I know this would be like a shock to you. Its been long since we last met. In fact, you would wonder right now as to how I managed to get your address. Thank or blame this technology age, I can even trace Hitler's address when he was a child. Something has propoelled me to write this one.Well,its more of guilt accompanied by a curioisty to know how you have been. That night when I hung up on you, it was probably one of the coldest days in London and I felt colder as the feeling, that I had let you down, wrapped around me. I’ve always been ashamed I didn’t speak to you, and this letter is an attempt to rid myself of that feeling.
I cant forget the day when I saw you at the swimming pool. You were with your friend, all gigglining and splashing the water at each oother. Jordan was not for bold women. You stood out. Your eyes spoke millions about the revolt you felt within as a modern women living within an orthodox country. I noticed you and I shall admit that it was lust at first sight. It was the skin I remember clearly and the droplets of water that clung to your skin. They shined under the sun creating an aura. You were clad in a yellow bikini and at the moment I really desired you Ayesha. I did not know the consequences then.
Jordan was a break away from the hectic schedules of life. Mr. Hamid along with Mr. Ali accompanied me to the hotel. They were my travel guides and had been arranged by my company, Some of the perks I "suffer" for beig in the the IT industry.
I saw you at the lounge of the Meridian in a while again and this time I could not resist. I came up to you and asked you your name. You smelt of liquour and you were high and still giggling about something. You looked at your friend and pronounced your name shyly with a typical arabic accent that really turned me on.
I went back to Mr. Hamid and told him that I had dinner plans. I told them that I was going out with you girls. He looked at me suspiciously and angrily both. "Who are these girls?", he asked. And then came a barrage of questions. Are they Jordanian? Are they students? How old are they? Give me their surnames.
I just let them know that it was none of their business. I just came out of there.
We decided to go for a drink, an activity which in my ignorance I assumed was acceptable for young people in that tourist town. We sat upstairs on a restaurant terrace and I ordered a beer. You asked for one too. The waiter, a young toughie with an adolescent moustache, shook his head and tutted. You and Maryam spoke sharply to him in Arabic. Reluctantly he brought bottles and glasses. See how we are living, you said. Even this guy thinks he can tell us what to do, how we should behave. In a while your hands rested on my leg and squeezed it. That look. I cannot forget that look. I wanted to make love to you that very moment. I just wished for a moment that the restaaurant was dested and I could lay you down on this table and make love to you on it. What had you done Ayesha?What had you done to me?
I noticed others staring coldly at us. I didn’t feel we were doing anything wrong, but I began to feel nervous, as if I were walking through customs or talking to a policeman. We chatted a little, finding out about each other. You told me you were twenty-one, studying literature. You wrote poetry. Your parents wanted you to get married to a banker, the son of family friends. Reading between the lines I realised you were a rich girl. Rich and bored. Then it all tumbled out, how you were sick of living in Amman, sick of being told who you could speak to and what to wear, sick of being called a prostitute just because you were having a conversation with a man. Is that what the waiter said, I asked. You shook your head angrily. He didn’t like it that Arab girls were with a foreigner. He didn’t like it that we were drinking alcohol. What did his honour have to do with anything? What business was it of his?
I sympathised with it all and yet I felt petrified somewhere within. But there was something about you Ayesha that made my heart feel warm. Your eyes. They twinkled irrespective of what you thought or did. It was like a sincere effort to be happy and gay all the time. It was like you tried all your best to keep the sadness hidden inside. Niceley and Tightly tucked. Yet I could see it.
Lets go and dance you said. You teased me saying that the british were a bunch of hags all born wih two left feet. It was again the same scene there. The guards had a constipated look again. They whispered to each other about your outfit and the look turned shameful. We danced till we could not anymore. You, I and Maryam finished an entire packet of Marlboro in a span of 30 mins.
Maryam decided to drive me back to my hotel. She drove as we lay cuddled behind, all sloshed. I kissed you fiercely and you reciprocated. Maryam turned a blind eye to all of it though I felt emabarassed at one point.
It was the next day that really turned it around. We walked all along athe beach, kicking sand at each other. We talked and talked. You said you hated that the world was inching towards a technological revolution. You thought it was alienating people from nature. For a moment I wanted to argue, but I let go. It was all so beautiful. You, the sea, the light around.
We returned to our room from the backdoors. I did not want Mr. Hamid to catch us both going into our room. It was then things changed. We kissed passionately. We had stripped each other of all clothes. It was when I pulled out the condom from my purse that I saw you expressions change. You asked me with surprise and fright whether I always roamed with one in my purse. You asked me how many women I had slept with. You asked me whether she was just one of my deals as usual. I was not ready for this. Somehow, then suddenly you yourself let go and called me towards yourself. But by then the damage had been done. The questions ashamed me. I was not serious about you and I realised that even though you were wild by nature, you yearned for love.
I asked you to wear your clothes and told you I could not do this. That is when you started crying and asked me if you were not good enough for me. I could never explain it to you. You left and left your number. The next day as I was leaving, I really thought you would come. you did not and it was over. I thought I had buried you Ayesha, somehwere deep in my heart. But after months the phone rang and it was you . Your voice asking me if I recognised it. I hung up.
I apologise Ayesha. I really do.
Love"You know who"
V.V.Vikram
Dear Ayesha
I know this would be like a shock to you. Its been long since we last met. In fact, you would wonder right now as to how I managed to get your address. Thank or blame this technology age, I can even trace Hitler's address when he was a child. Something has propoelled me to write this one.Well,its more of guilt accompanied by a curioisty to know how you have been. That night when I hung up on you, it was probably one of the coldest days in London and I felt colder as the feeling, that I had let you down, wrapped around me. I’ve always been ashamed I didn’t speak to you, and this letter is an attempt to rid myself of that feeling.
I cant forget the day when I saw you at the swimming pool. You were with your friend, all gigglining and splashing the water at each oother. Jordan was not for bold women. You stood out. Your eyes spoke millions about the revolt you felt within as a modern women living within an orthodox country. I noticed you and I shall admit that it was lust at first sight. It was the skin I remember clearly and the droplets of water that clung to your skin. They shined under the sun creating an aura. You were clad in a yellow bikini and at the moment I really desired you Ayesha. I did not know the consequences then.
Jordan was a break away from the hectic schedules of life. Mr. Hamid along with Mr. Ali accompanied me to the hotel. They were my travel guides and had been arranged by my company, Some of the perks I "suffer" for beig in the the IT industry.
I saw you at the lounge of the Meridian in a while again and this time I could not resist. I came up to you and asked you your name. You smelt of liquour and you were high and still giggling about something. You looked at your friend and pronounced your name shyly with a typical arabic accent that really turned me on.
I went back to Mr. Hamid and told him that I had dinner plans. I told them that I was going out with you girls. He looked at me suspiciously and angrily both. "Who are these girls?", he asked. And then came a barrage of questions. Are they Jordanian? Are they students? How old are they? Give me their surnames.
I just let them know that it was none of their business. I just came out of there.
We decided to go for a drink, an activity which in my ignorance I assumed was acceptable for young people in that tourist town. We sat upstairs on a restaurant terrace and I ordered a beer. You asked for one too. The waiter, a young toughie with an adolescent moustache, shook his head and tutted. You and Maryam spoke sharply to him in Arabic. Reluctantly he brought bottles and glasses. See how we are living, you said. Even this guy thinks he can tell us what to do, how we should behave. In a while your hands rested on my leg and squeezed it. That look. I cannot forget that look. I wanted to make love to you that very moment. I just wished for a moment that the restaaurant was dested and I could lay you down on this table and make love to you on it. What had you done Ayesha?What had you done to me?
I noticed others staring coldly at us. I didn’t feel we were doing anything wrong, but I began to feel nervous, as if I were walking through customs or talking to a policeman. We chatted a little, finding out about each other. You told me you were twenty-one, studying literature. You wrote poetry. Your parents wanted you to get married to a banker, the son of family friends. Reading between the lines I realised you were a rich girl. Rich and bored. Then it all tumbled out, how you were sick of living in Amman, sick of being told who you could speak to and what to wear, sick of being called a prostitute just because you were having a conversation with a man. Is that what the waiter said, I asked. You shook your head angrily. He didn’t like it that Arab girls were with a foreigner. He didn’t like it that we were drinking alcohol. What did his honour have to do with anything? What business was it of his?
I sympathised with it all and yet I felt petrified somewhere within. But there was something about you Ayesha that made my heart feel warm. Your eyes. They twinkled irrespective of what you thought or did. It was like a sincere effort to be happy and gay all the time. It was like you tried all your best to keep the sadness hidden inside. Niceley and Tightly tucked. Yet I could see it.
Lets go and dance you said. You teased me saying that the british were a bunch of hags all born wih two left feet. It was again the same scene there. The guards had a constipated look again. They whispered to each other about your outfit and the look turned shameful. We danced till we could not anymore. You, I and Maryam finished an entire packet of Marlboro in a span of 30 mins.
Maryam decided to drive me back to my hotel. She drove as we lay cuddled behind, all sloshed. I kissed you fiercely and you reciprocated. Maryam turned a blind eye to all of it though I felt emabarassed at one point.
It was the next day that really turned it around. We walked all along athe beach, kicking sand at each other. We talked and talked. You said you hated that the world was inching towards a technological revolution. You thought it was alienating people from nature. For a moment I wanted to argue, but I let go. It was all so beautiful. You, the sea, the light around.
We returned to our room from the backdoors. I did not want Mr. Hamid to catch us both going into our room. It was then things changed. We kissed passionately. We had stripped each other of all clothes. It was when I pulled out the condom from my purse that I saw you expressions change. You asked me with surprise and fright whether I always roamed with one in my purse. You asked me how many women I had slept with. You asked me whether she was just one of my deals as usual. I was not ready for this. Somehow, then suddenly you yourself let go and called me towards yourself. But by then the damage had been done. The questions ashamed me. I was not serious about you and I realised that even though you were wild by nature, you yearned for love.
I asked you to wear your clothes and told you I could not do this. That is when you started crying and asked me if you were not good enough for me. I could never explain it to you. You left and left your number. The next day as I was leaving, I really thought you would come. you did not and it was over. I thought I had buried you Ayesha, somehwere deep in my heart. But after months the phone rang and it was you . Your voice asking me if I recognised it. I hung up.
I apologise Ayesha. I really do.
Love"You know who"
V.V.Vikram
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