Auto-matic writing

It may be just another of those starkly typical days. One stares in amused consternation at the two ladies struggling to manage their enormous shopping bags, while trying to place themselves strategically on the auto seats. One of them, in the mad rush of describing the important personal “shits” (the Bengali tongue chooses not to make an effort to extend the vowel sound during emergencies) that have been faxed to department so-and-so, suddenly loses a shoe, which slips under the auto. After it has been rescued and the minute hand has been given sufficient time to cause a mini heart attack, one tries to settle comfortably in the front seat, with the bag pressed to one’s chest, to avoid an inevitable tussle with driver’s elbow(or probably, out of practice). The auto swerves through Bikramgarh “horn”-ing its way through a crowd of cycles and cows, forcing out an impulsive “uf” from the little petite man who is fighting to keep his cool despite obvious reasons for worry as evident from his frequent phone calls.

Almost 12. The metro must be pulling out of the station now, with people hanging on to waists and hands and limbs precariously as the doors slide shut. There is of course no hope to attend the first class anymore so one relaxes the muscles and leans back to wonder about the next class. Another auto zooms by in the opposite direction-one smiles at the ghosts of the couple seated at the back, one of them explaining something with a passionate vehemence to his recalcitrant listener who is lost in her own doubts and speculations. If one is lucky however, one may find a known face with shining curls bouncing all around the headphones stuck into his ears, as he hops across the road.

The phone may ring. It may a sudden invitation for spending the evening out at a newly discovered coffee shop in Mudiali. Or not. The auto is coming to a stop now. One may find in utter dismay the paucity of “khuchro”s in the purse and start making a pathetically tragic face to beg the auto driver to accept the fifty rupees note. The next metro may leave too. Sigh.

Microfic 4- Shattered

The room was longitudinally dissected by seven horizontal tables each of whose tops was filled with exactly twenty-seven glass jars, expressive in their own individual taciturnity. Indiscernible shapes floated in a gelatinous solution within the jars.  If one entered suddenly from the outside, the room provided the impression of being enveloped by a dirty yellowish mist. The raw smell of blood and anaesthesia pervaded the atmosphere.

He looked around perspicaciously. As his eyes gradually got adjusted to the murky darkness, he felt a faint chant-like buzzing hovering about near his ears. “Lumos”, he whispered and holding aloft the lighted tip of his wand like a torch, he stood near the end of the first table, his scorched hand playfully stroking its surface.

They had obstinately remained blind to his arguments. This was a gift- a precious and rare talent. Why must one willingly demolish the sanctity of a pure species by contamination of blood? How can he erase from his memory the sight of his mother being mercilessly hurled into the pyre by those filthy ignorant bastards? And now he was condemned to watch their children walk about like clumsy clowns in robes and learn ‘magic tricks.’ He spat on the ground in disgust.

It was three against one. Rowena had eventually caved in last night. He had to do something. Putting out the light he raised his head and sniffed the air. He glided towards the third table in an inebriated trance. “Yesss”, he hissed, the glint in his eyes matching the reddish sparks that flew out of his wand. “Basilisk eggs”-he flicked out an unusually long tongue and licked his thin lips.

He cradled his trophy adorably in his lap. Then with a quick swish of his wand, he breathed an incantation into it, and the rest of the jars came shattering down one by one. Just like the multiculoured glass beads from Mammy’s necklace, during the ’66 witch burning incident.

Microfic fever 3- Tune

There was a reason for the tunes in her life to sound like fire crackling on a sea beach at night. For the raindrops to kiss her lips passionately while we were entangling knots in our matted hair. For her skin to feel as fresh as the trembling dew at the edge of grasses. For the remarkable depth in her eyes that smiled whenever clouds gathered in the sky.

When she was a little girl, she had had a chance encounter with a magician.

Microfic fever 2-Lens

When the camera slipped from his hands and shattered the lens into pieces, and he found that he did not have enough money to buy a new one, he wondered if he had sacrificed a little too much by getting married and having a child.

Later as he lay stretched under the star-studded dappled canvas of the sky, cocooned within the rapturous fumes from a chhilim, Hiya ran up to him with a cardboard box, with a circular jagged glass fitted at one of its ends. “Baba, eta tor jonyo. Happy birthday! Chol, khete chol ebar. Ma dakche”. With tears trickling down his cheeks, he planted a kiss on her forehead and knew there had been no mistake.

Microfiction fever-Bhije Beral

‘Tara pore giyechhilo akta moydar jar-e. Tai jar theke berolo tintey sada beral’

Sasha loosened her pigtails and lay down next to Baba. It was his favourite book. Na, wait. It was Dadu’s. Russian folktales, translated into bangla.  Baba looks so peaceful when he sleeps. His phone is switched off, he isn’t scolding ma for forgetting to take her pills, neither is he shouting at Mu for leaving pug marks over his papers.

Sasha wiped her eyes. They were stuffing cotton swabs into his nostrils.

“Joley porey gechhilo-tai jol theke berolo tintey bhije beral”.

College and Nostalgia

And suddenly like a flurry of bad news, the final year of graduation is upon Us-the crazy, unique, united and terribly self-absorbed Us. The other day, K lamented wistfully that this is all coming to an end too suddenly, too unpredictably, before we have had got enough of it. Maybe it is this irrevocable dread of separation, of the inevitability of the end, that 'Us' prefers to forsake the identities it used to convey and indulge in masochistic nostalgia, by being distant from one another. New faces crowd our rooms, our conversations-the inexorable accusation("you let him take my place-in your heart, mind, and questionably the body") has entered our interactions. The thrill of first-year antlamo has been replaced by an all pervading gross sentimentalism and an imminent cynicism.
This blog entry is inspired by Ritinkar's blog which I tumbled upon recently. Maybe regular blogging, or an attempt at regular blogging will keep me preoccupied.