Monday 25 February 2013

The Lost Moments

Every moment in our life is mortal. It gradually fades away, disappearing into the womb of past. At times we are seized with an urge to relish the flavor of those lost moments and reconstruct those sweetened hours of mirth. The happy moments which recede from our lives with an abrupt swiftness, leaving behind its evanescent memories, often rise to the surface to moisten our eyes with glistening tears of joy.

We crave to adhere to the charm of that naive happiness and succumb to the hollowness of that lost past, but alas; it is expunged in the deluge of ‘Time’. At times, those departed moments are revived and resurrected in our minds, breaking the shackles of time, wrapping us in its warmth. We live the moments again, but with an emptiness and staleness…..the staleness of time. The non detailed debris are reconstructed and wiped out several times, till the cruel talons of time rips it apart from us and we are left with the wrecked carcass.

Thursday 14 February 2013

The girl in the ‘Prussian’ Sari

The goblets laced the edge of that massive table, clothed in an impeccable white cloth. The multi colored cuisines wrapped in their intoxicating scent appealed every eye to take a glance at their delicious contours. The wine, the mellifluous tune that fragranced the environ and the pageant of those delicate damsels that thronged the corners built a mesmerizing rather an invigorating climate in that massive hall. Gentlemen from the lustrous niche of the society, donned in expensive black clustered around the tables with goblets of wines, all consumed in vanity. They were the businessmen, scholars, socialists and figures of repute who occupied the clichéd podium of glamour and hypocrisy.  They talked of politics, social affairs, food and other grave subjects with intense sincerity and seldom passed serious glances to the giggling bevy. This was the aristocratic populace with the taste of the finest things that wealth could buy.
The wives and the girls flaunted their beauty, conversed of men, their riches and responded to those serious glances with short peals of laughter. It was enticing and pleasantly disturbing enough to allure the pretentiously grave men. There was warmth, elegance and deceitfulness in every single character that populated the raving ambience. But the girl in that Prussian-blue chiffon sari....Was she not disparate from the chuckling flock? She stood with a fine goblet clasped between her slender fingers, silent and observant, at one of the obscure corners near the drinkery racing her curious eyes through that enthusiastic crowd.
 There was a faint smile on her somber countenance and elegance in the tall frame work that she owned. Her voluptuous contour draped in the sequined Prussian cloth made her obtrusively significant in that dry corner. People walked past her without much concern but there was an inexplicable unusualness that held them for moments. They passed glances at her for a while and walked away with abrupt briskness. One amongst those sober gentlemen who had been observing the conundrum from a while, made his way towards her, perhaps to shred the monotony. He quietly stationed himself beside her, and ordered for a glass of wine. The attendant plucked out a fine goblet from that huge collection and poured into it a stream of red wine. He swirled it once with subtle tenderness and sipped onto its glazed edge. His dark dense brows rose up with delight and his stony visage brightened with contentment. He turned towards the ‘Prussian’ lady and muttered, “AhThe wine tastes nice!” She turned her crest with a sudden jerk and looked at him, astonished. The man smiled at her astonishment and replied, “Did I petrify you miss?”  A soft smile smudged the corners of her painted lips and she quietly replied, “No sir. Just a little surprised”.
The food spilled intense aroma and the scent of the feminine perfumes intensified the heaving ambience. The man took frequent sips from that goblet and smiled at the girl intermittently. It was rather a silent imploration to carry out a frivolous conversation. “What do you like the most in food, Madame?” he spoke again. She answered, “oh Sire….I am not a great food lover, still I have a corner for French delicacies.” He shrugged his shoulders and tucked his palms into his pockets, and smiled as if to acknowledge her taste. She talked of wines, people, their places and other aristocracies as she played with her silken overflowing mane that flowed down her delicate shoulders. She detailed every single subject that he started with. The man got entangled in that unvoiced charm and craved to talk more.  He was ensnared by her plainness, her comprehension, subtle humor and her uncultivated sophesticacy. Had she not travelled across the lengths of the globe? Was she not the perfect one to have as a companion? Was she not a woman of deep understanding and learning? He wondered how educated and refined she was!!
There was a sudden rush. The people fleeted towards the dining court. The girl turned towards him and uttered softly, “I have to leave sire…..would you mind...” and before she could close, he interrupted with yawning curiosity, “I just forgot to ask! Do you own a restaurant?? I own one down the Khirpi lane. We call it the ‘Dining Row’. ” The girl smiled back to her and replied, “SirI do not own a restaurant, but I own a small corner at yours’. I am the assistant to your Kitchen Manager.” He stood shaken and speechless as she uttered a goodbye word and walked away with a tender smile. He contemplated his assumption for a while and broke into a smile, mocking at his inevident suppositions.

Sunday 3 February 2013

The Mother


The room was plunged in a tearing silence. The somber lifeless corpse lay still on that squalid sheet wrapped in a tattered checkered blanket. A couple of brazenly dressed women stood close near that dead lady. Their grave countenances and the intermittent sighs reflected more of relief than remorse. The doctor quietly left the room with a deep sigh and a sluggish gait. I stood at the threshold gaping blindly at her, tainted story of shattered hopes and a defamed name. One of those ladies walked up to me and uttered in a restrained voice, “She waited for long but she passed away.” I nodded with heaviness and replied, “The funeral…the orphanage would bear the expenses.” And I trotted away.
She was Bimlamati. She often came and sat herself in the rusted iron bench on the garden, and glared at me with an unexplained oddity!! I was sixteen then. I quietly observed the silent conundrum watching the children play. They often capriciously walked up to the lady and gaped at her silence with utter amazement .She caught hold of one of them and amused herself in their rapture. And they made incessant efforts to free themselves from her stingy grip.
Our mother, rather that magnanimous woman who owned all of us often sat beside her, comforting the pains that she tamed. She was one amongst those many distorted beings who came in search of innocent mirth amidst those innocuous smiles, yet there was a silent question stirring behind those inquisitive eyes. I made relentless efforts to take reins over my profound interest to discover the cause behind those curious stares. But they ever remained in the locked cask of curiosity. I often questioned our mother about all the people who came to visit us, and caressed the children with sympathy rather than  affection. But ‘She’ was a disparate being. She silently came, engulfed in deep calmness and spent her hours glaring at the distant emptiness of the garden and her other favorite subject was ‘me’!!
 My Ignorance of who she was and where she had come from, kept me prying into her questioned identity. But all my endeavors were rendered futile. Neither did mother speak of her nor did I. Soon I was sent to a college. The strict norms of the convent and the sudden disclosure to numerous friends, foes and acquaintances left me in deep perplexities. I grew big, in senses and in my thoughts. I was taught compassion and humility. The Nuns took us to the hospitals, slums, and the brothels. The condemnable plight of those impoverished lives left us in tears. The contaminated reputation of those women who decked the brothels of the cities and their maligned luster made us look at them with deep empathy. I was taught to serve. I thought of life and the ghoulish facets. The ugliness seemed to entwine every branch of their lives. Yet they smiled!
How unwearyingly they bore the burden of abhorrence! How hungry they were for acceptance. The orphic pain, the intolerable condemnation stirred every eye that witnessed it! I walked through those infected lanes with a deep desire to help them. I collected chandas, clothes and all that I could procure from the fortunate niche of the society. The convent supported and appreciated my petite efforts to practice what they had imparted to me. Days fled and I was an educated being .And I was portrayed  a poor’s champion in my familiar boundaries.
The ‘Mother’ was on death bed. I was sent for from the orphanage. I left by the first train that I could get to champagram. Mother lay sick and distorted in her little cot. The strong gusts of breath that she blew out evinced the weariness of her life. But the eyes spoke of the same recognized kindness that she possessed for every child that she had mothered.  Being the eldest and the most educated of all, I was asked to take over the reins of ‘Charulata’, (the orphanage) my mother’s dreams. She waved the others to leave. And Mother and I were left alone. The ticking clock, the dankness of the room, the shrunken frame of her body and the oozing rheum from her weary eyes uttered ‘Death’. I was stunned and broken!
She held my palm in hers and stared at me with bareness. My heart sank the more. I sat stiff in awe when suddenly she spoke. “Bimla is your mother”. I was left gawking at her for an indefinite time. I could not question further. The night hours passed nimbly and the next morning she passed away. I was chained in her death and the quoted words.
Bimplamati belonged to that disgraced niche of this sophisticated society where the brutal play of orgasm knits itself behind the veils of urbaneness. She was a Whore!!! She was one amongst those million faces for whom I had been compassionately serving for the last few years. Yet I was filled with detest. How could I be born to her?
She still came and sat herself on those rusted iron benches in those gardens. The children had grown. And there were few more new ones. But the stares remained indifferent. My curiosity to know her questioned identity had been answered. And the consequence was intense distaste towards her and myself. How often I felt to run to her and fall into her arms but how could I? Was she not a whore? Was she not a ruined creature of the populace? Was it not ridiculous to accept that tainted woman and call her ‘Mother’? After all I was an educated woman of this tamed society!