The Box (A Telephonic Debate)

So, when is this package of yours exactly arriving? Maane, how the fuck do you know it'll arrive today?
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Dude, it's been friggin 10 years now. You were supposed to receive it back when you guys shifted, when you came to live with your grandparents. So, tokhon jodi nayi peye thakish, 10 bochhor baade ki postal service nijer baap-er sradhho korar jonne toke ekta hariye jawa baksho khunje debe? Be realistic man!
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What? You've been waiting for this package for 10 years now? Maane, you have been expecting it'll reach you? Ki emon important chhilo bakshotay, je eto akulota?
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Dolls? Oh my fucking god! You mean to say you used to play with dollies? Haha!
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Ofcourse, maane physically i guess you pass off as a girl, but dude! Maane, the mean badass chick who drinks like a hairy redneck, used to play with dollies? Hilarious man, just hilarious!
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What?! Rabindrasangeets too?
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Naa, maane, I know you have a Rabindric family, but tui to gaiteo parish na, nachteo parish na, porashona-tao khub kichhu korish na. Tobe Rabindranath-er sathe shomporko-ta kothay?
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Did you just use the word Hridoy? Oh my god, now I'll puke.
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Haha! Olebabale, rege gechhe. Nana, ar na. Ajker jonne enough chat kheyechhis.
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Jungle book? Ei ota amaro chhoto belar fav books-er modhhe pore je! Gosh, was a beautiful book. But janish, pore boro hoye jokhon abar porte gelam, kirokom jeno laglo. Jeno chhotobelae je chair-tay thik boshe jete partam, ekhon boshte gele chair-ta bhenge pore  jachhe. Sherokom laglo.
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Exactly! It's like, oi memory gulo shob ekta air tight container e atkano achhe, and khullei purota bhenge guro guro hoye jabe. Jhora pata-r moton.
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Gandu. You have to make some total stupid joke, just when we have som serious discussion. But ami kintu ekhono bujhlam na, why are you waiting for that box to come?
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Memories? Dolls, and casettes, and books, eguloi tor childhood? Kinda shallow if you ask me.
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Na na. Rege jachhis keno? You see, you are the one who just said memories should not be tampered, they're too precious for that. And amar mote memories are the images stored inside this hollow cranium chamber. Then why, why wait for a stupid box, full of vintage dolls, and garbage? Ekhane the material possesions then are the representatives of your memories? Shallow, as I said.
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No. You've had your childhood. These stuff cannot be your childhood. Your childhood, you've left it behind. I mean you've had your share.
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See! You agree with me then! That box, if you receive it today, by chance, treasure it, but don't make a trophy out of it. Those dolls, they're just a part, not the memory itself.
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Okay, you go see the door. Maa's shouting anyway, so gotta hang up. See you in the evening love!
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Haha! Got you there gal! Bye.

Umm, I kinda tried to clear out stuff from my mind, but looks like the cellphone had something else in mind. I'm not satisfied.

Grave of Peter Pan

Peter Pan. Rest in peace.
The kids gather 'round.
This is the tombstone of Peter Pan.

Peter Pan. You left all those kids
Who believe in you
Alone. Peter, pray for them.

Chase away the cold, across the
Hilltop valleys, for here lies
Peter Pan. Rest in peace.

Peter Pan. You're not coming back
They chained your feet, and broke your back.
Peter Pan. Can you rest in peace?

Peter Pan. In this great free world
You are our modern minded dictator.
Oh Peter, did you have to leave already?

Peter Pan. Now we know
You ain't any fairytale anymore.
Your grave lies above us. R.I.P

Gather 'round children
Around this one memory
Left of someone never to be free (from his chains of misery).

Peter don't look back.
They're clipping your wings, they're breaking your back.
Peter Pan. Rest in peace.

Gather 'round children
Around a dead memory.
Peter Pan. Rest in peace.

A little song dealing with the loss of innocence. And those dead kids in Libya.

Holy Hay!

The roads were nearly empty, not very dark, but very empty. I walked on. I was late. And it wasn't meant to be this way. I wasn't supposed to be late. I carried on walking. There was fire on the road ahead. And tribal beats. Almost ancient demon like. Maybe I should turn around. These are really not the places for kids to hang around, at this point of the night. But turning around means going back a long way. Too much time would be wasted. Why not just push on and check what it really is? Might just be people dancing around in the joy of the windy night.
I suddenly saw a kid. He ran across the street and disappeared into one of the adjoining alleys. Red face. Looked like he was bleeding. And a few more followed him. They were chasing him, blackened faces.
His face was glistening in the white neon lights. Not the nicest of the sights to be seen around. I kind of pushed the image away, and kept walking.
The fire was sky high now, crossing the heads of many, and trying to scorch whoever was left before it. And then there were people. None of their faces could be made out in the dark. All that I was being able to see through the fire were the brightly blooded shirts. They had blood on their faces too. And they were humming, and screeching, kinda sounded like mourning over something, not really joyous, didn't give much pleasure to the soul. Maybe I should really turn around now. This place is not really looking very hospitable. But what the heck, I was late, and I had to reach home as fast as I could. I pushed into the farthest corner of the road, and passed those men. They were still behind the fire, they were still screaming, and moaning, and I still couldn't see their face. I kept on walking. It was a full moon night, but it was way too cloudy, for the moon to shine on. Clouds, they cast shadow on the moon, according to Keats. Not very scientific Mr. Keats.
And I saw men walking on the streets. All in a line, and they were all marching in a weird rhythmic way. Kinda looked like drunkards practising goosestepping. And their face, all with different colours, mostly shades of black. They were looking very strange. So many drunkards at the same place, or was I the one who was drunk? Not possible. I didn't drink. I ran past them, they were scaring me.
In the road ahead I could see men, boys, children, everyone with dry foliages on the shoulder. They were dumping the branches and leaves at the middle of the street. Oh no, they were planning to burn the whole street, the road ahead! I had to get pass them, before the fire broke out. I ran. I ran for my life.
And the people. The faceless people were laughing, I covered my face. And I ran.
Finally, I could see the main road. Vehicles passing each other. Running for cover from faceless people
I saw a taxi. And there was the taxi driver. He didn't seem to have colours on his face.
Enough of faceless people. I ran for the taxi.

Sardarji! Picnic Garden jayenge?

Ji zaroor jayenge. Kaha jayenge boliye?

And the taxi driver turned towards me. He wasn't a sardarji. He had no beard. He had no freckles. He had no nose. He had no mouth. He had no eyes.

..He had no face...



This is the style in which I first started writing.
And BTW, don't go around walking like a drunkard in the night before Holi.

The Talk Show Host

So, another night, another new light
Let me introduce myself gentlemen, and the accompanying luggage boys
I am your storyteller, your stony eyed, horror host for tonight
Please, leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman.
From this moment, you are out of place and underdressed.
I'm wrecking your lives already and loving every minute of it,
Ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring diva and lovely toilet kit.

Just for the record,
The weather today is slightly sarcastic with a good chance of:
A. Indifference or
B. Plain erotic boredom down your face
So you better start running or you won't win the arms race.
But you see, I write sins, not your daily average tragedy.
So, the least you can expect is a table, and on it some nitroglycerin
And fuck you viewers, I'm yours truly siamese Sin.
So complain, if you may, I just might help you be the hero
For my next TV show, after the break.
Here are no raindrops on roses and girls in white dresses.
We're sleeping with the roaches and taking best guesses
So shed off the masks and wash away the stains
And a few more of my least favorite things.

It has been a lovely night, all my friends,
But now it is time for you to leave,
As I'll take my daily drugs, and resume my search for a cover.
In the meantime, don't try to die, 'cos you must remember
The only difference between martyrdom and suicide, is press coverage
Instead, remember to close the goddamn door when you say goodnight,
It is time to say goodbye, close the lights, now I'm offstage.

Result of boredom.

Shadows

    You see, graveyards are not the ideal place for hangouts, especially if you are 17, and it's around 9:30 at night. So when Pratik actually challenged me to hang around with him for like half an hour inside the Muslim graveyard near Ultodanga, I really wasn't excited, especially since I don't believe in ghosts, but am shit scared of them. Generally I'd have turned down the offer, but today had been a bad day, what with that terrible mathematics paper, I had to lighten up a bit. So I agreed with the challenge.
    Now, if by graveyard you think some super creepy place, you are right. It is, if you let the creepiness seep in that is. We walked around a bit on the pitch road, orange shadows and lights showering around, the innumerous graves lining the road. Now this is a pretty old graveyard, as I observed some graves to date back around the time of indipendence. Most of the headstones had urdu scribblings, and ocassional 'Maya I Love You's.

Pratik: Ki bhai rastae rastae ghurchhis? Let's go and sit somewhere?
Me: Sit? Are you sure? Ekhane kothao bosha allowed naki?
Pratik: Ami ki jani? Amra to regular maal khai ekhane eshe. Cho toke jaygata dekhai.
Me: err, okay. Su.. Sure.
Pratik: Cho na. Bhoy khachhis keno?
Me: Ke bhoy khachhe? Cho tui.

      And so we shifted our path from the main road, and travelled through an airy labyrinth of graves, and left the bright side of the world, to enter a more shadowy version. Now, this might be a great place for junkies, but I so totally do not belong here. I don't. The neon lights didn't reach this place of the earth, just an orange hue surrounding everything. Must be smog. And then there are the shadowy trees. Not your weepy willows from the London scene and the greater Psychedelic truth of Pink Floyd, but the banyan trees, which are creepy enough to make you shit in your undies. And there were the graves. White, tiled, broken, and they smelt of soil. Pratik sat down on one of the graves. I stood, confused whether to rest my fat ass on the last remains of some one who 'has been, but not anymore'. Finally I decided to push aside the cordiality with the dead, and sat down on another grave. There lay the remains of some Karim Abdullah, or something like that. "Sorry Karim chacha. Hope I ain't disturbing you much." I started to converse, to push aside the eery feeling I was experiencing on the back of my neck.
     Now, Pratik is a really nice guy. He knows studies and books are not for him, it's just the guitar and the stage, that is his world. And, though knowing very well he won't fare pretty well in the H.S. he keeps on trying and trying hard to make his peace with academics. And I respect him for that fact. He's also a very experienced drinker, and he knows weird places all around North Calcutta, just like where we were resting now. If it wasn't him, I wouldn't have actually dared to come at this place, at any time of a given day. We chatted about life, music, girls, and condoms. Meanwhile, I saw my cellphone vibrating. Anwesha, and she was asking where I was. I let her know my coordinates, and she kinda freaked out and asked me to get out of that place.
     But after a while, when the initial terror passes, this place is actually a cool place to be, y'know. Cool, breezy. On one side, over the low wall, a vast meadow was lying, empty, bereft of any greenness, just brown and yellow. And in the not so far away, the lights of the Police quarters, and Ultodanga buildings could be seen. It was a clear no man's land, no one was supposed to be there, at this time. No one was actually. But here, it was bustling with life, in this shadowy marsh land.
      But it was getting late, it was almost 10 now.
Pratik: Chol sala uthi ebar.
Me: So I win? Yay! Cho ebar uthi.
       And we entered back into the world of light. This, was more comfortable. And then we realised-
Pratik: Ei maal! Tor chhayata koi? Where hell is your shadow?
Me: Where it's suppossed to be, dude. Right behind me, following me.
Pratik: Naa re! Tor kono chhaya porchhe na re, Maakkalir dibbi!
       I freaked out, and turned around. And there was no shadow. Nothing. I was standin, on the middle of a clearly lit road, and there, there wasn't any shadow, of me. It was almost like I was half me. The other half, the shadowy part, disappeared.
Me: Crap! Eta ki? Eta ki bhabe? Eta ki kore holo?
Pratik: Bhai, ami to kichhu bujchhi na. Amar to dibbi chhayata porchhe.
      I saw that. Two boys were standing on the middle of the road. But there was only one shadow. And then it clicked to me. I'd left my shadow behind. And I had to get that back.
      I ran towards the place where we were sitting, a few minutes back. I ran, I ran. I ran through the graves, through the fallen leaves. Through the dead.
      I went back to that place. And I saw shadows sitting. One, two, three, maybe a few more. I couldn't differ them. Shadows sitting around, huddling, maybe waiting for a few more shadows to join them. Crap! Which one was my shadow? I saw a fat looking shadow, at a little distance from the rest. He had this orange hue around him, must have from the orange shirt I was wearing. That had to be me.
      So I went up to him, held him by the hand, and dragged him back to below the orange lights.
Me: Now you be a good boy, and stick back inside me. Or else I'll whoop your shadowy ass.
      The shadow just nodded. I saw Pratik at a distance. I went up to him.
Pratik: Peli? Kothay chhilo?
Me: Oi okhantay bhul kore fele esechhilam. Majhemodhhey bhul hoye jay. Choh, ar bhalo lagchhe na.

    ....And the two figures left, with their respective shadows, not caring to notice the dimming of the orange lights. It was closing time, it was the time of the shadows....

Graveyards are spooky place for hanging out. Believe me. I've experienced it today O.o

Angel

       Once upon a time, there was this angel. All black and white, and holy and halo. But she was not your ordinary angel. She was different from the rest of 'em, her parents, her friends, her foes, and the rest of 'em. She had no wings.
       No feathers, no bones jutting out from her back, no tickling sensation near the rib, not even the whole theory of "I-can-fly-so-I-will" attitude. She just had no wings, and she just couldn't fly.
        Now having no wings, is such an extraordinary event, that it wasn't even disgraceful. No one ever made fun of her, no one bullied her in school, and unlike the normal cases, she wasn't even considered an outcast. This 'no-wing' stuff was just so completely new for all of them. How could it possibly feel not to be able to fly? Doctors had nothing to say, this was a new discovery in the field of medical science. Some super disfugurement of the genetics could only lead to such a change in the anatomy. The soothsayers had nothing to say. This was just an out of the imagination thing to have happened. Nothing went wrong anyway in this world, so this possibly couldn't be an omen. Everyone was curious. What was wrong with this no-wing kid? Everything else seemed fine.
        As she grew up, she became more and more pretty, just like the rest of them. But when others used to fly around, hang out with their lovers behind the clouds, or just maybe play aerial football, she was the one left standing on the ground.
         Her parents bought her toys, coloured unicorns, rainbows, and other things, to keep her distracted, so as she was not reminded of her lack of wings. Being the rich people they were, just like the other folks, they could afford it. But no matter what, she would always feel precarious because of this certain lack in her. She would try hard to make those wings grow, but they just refused to come out.
        Now being the nowinged one was hard business. Everyday in the morning, her parents left to work, flying away cheerily. She'd go to her school, and there would be the other angel kids. They'd play with her, talk with her, be polite with her, but no matter what, she always would be the no-wing one.
        She always searched around, someone should have been out there, just like her, who'd understand her feelings, someone exactly like her. But all of them were similar, all of them had wings, all of them were the same. No one was different, like her. So she wanted to be like them.
        One day, while searching around in the school library for something she did not know existed, she bumped into a certain book. It went by the name of "The Little White Book: Everything an Angel shouldn't know". Now, any book with that name was bound to be popular, but this seemed to be a pretty old book, just dumped into a corner of the bookshelf. It was in this book she read the most important thing she'd ever got to know.
        "Fear lends one the wings to fly."
        That's it, this is what she had to know. She had to know what fear was, and she'd be flying in no time. So she decided to face fear.
        But sadly, being one of the angels, she had no fears, no fear of lizards, spiders, aliens, domestic abuse, not even CIA or the Great Angel Punisher, the machine of the myth which ate angels to create tears, but it was a myth only. But like every other angel, she was scared of death, that's one thing everyone's scared about, so she too had to.
         So one fine evening, when the moons were shining bright, and everyone was at their home, following the Cricker World Cup, she went up to the roof, she climbed up over the railing, and she jumped.
        Any moment now, and then she'd be flying around, wheezing around in the air, bringing peace back to everyone's mind. But anxious moments passed, and she kept dropping. It was then she realised to her disgust and horror, she wasn't even scared of death, or any of its friend for that matter of fact. She felt disgusted with herself. Why couldn't she even be scared, of if not of anything else, atleast death?
        And she realised, she never was an angel, and she could never be one, no matter how much hard she tried. She would always be the 'no-wing' one, the only one of her kind.
        And she hit the hard, cold, Earth.

An old piece, with great dollops of editing. This is for you, Anwesha :)

The Death Of A Curious Half Lizard

        You see, even though I'm 17 now, and big, and yaddiyaddayadda, the truth is, I'm shitscared of reptiles. Give me any kind, snakes, iguanas, navy seals, or the common lizard, and I'm shitscared of all them. But lucky for me, I don't have to face most of them when in my natural habitat, except the lizards. Greyish yellow, with unflickering eyes, and those claws, and ungh, I'm scared. So you obviously can guess how I'd react to killing one of those pesters.
         It all began one night, those normal, noneventful nights, where after your dinner, you receive your daily dose of Homer Simpson and Facebook, and then go to your bed thinking whether you should study New Industrial Policies of the shit government, or rather listen to some good ol' Floyd classics. I did all these things, like a ritual, then decided to sleep instead, like every other day. Now it is pretty embarassing to confess something like what I'm going to say next, over the 'net, but the thing is, just like reptiles, I'm scared of ghosts too. So, just to be on the safe side, I shut every window of my room, and the adjoining dining room, every night.
         Jaihok, that night too, I was shutting the windows, and while closing the last one, I realised that it wasnt closing. I pulled it harder, and I observed a lizard was stuck on the edge, the metallic window frame was slowly digging into its fading-yellow back. I stared at the lizard. Its eyes, they were button eyes, with unnaturally big pupils, and the mouth, it was ajar. I have never seen any animal with such a big open mouth, it almost looked like the handpuppet's face, and it was screaming aloud, a muted scream. This took a split second, and then I pulled the window even harder, and the lizard halved. The upper part, fell on the inside ledge of the window, over the salt jar. The lower part of the body, it disappeared into the outside world, probably fell all the three storeys into the ground below. The face remained the same, the little hands, like the pose of a surrender, and honey coloured body fluids dripped along the body of the glass jar. I decided to keep that window open, the tail might come in search of the head you know. That night, i slept unnaturally quite, no rumblings of nose gun, no nice dreams, a pretty deep slumber.
          Next morning I woke up, the first thing I remembered was the half lizard, and I cringed. I tried hard not to look at the window ledge, but I had to. I had to know what happened of the half lizard. I saw it wasn't there, and the first thing which came to my mind was, the tail had come back, and both halves flied away in an angelic union into the heaven of the sacred lizards.
           I enquired grandmother about any signs of a dead lizard, and she approved affirmitavely. She'd thrown away the remains of a dead lizard into the dustbin, which had already been emptied and taken away by the garbage man. I felt relieved, because I knew, if the half lizard was anywhere in my house, I'd surely have the repulsive urge to check it out for one last time. The day, it was meant to pass like any other normal day, but I had a strange eery experience through out the whole day. Something was moving inside my school shirt, something sharp, like claws were itching my neck. I knew it was the sharp, synthetic sticker of the vest, but it just felt like something else. The rest of the day followed with a similar tone. I ended up seeing SriJohn as a bearded lizard, found dead lizards in Nabottama's tiffin box, which actually were nice tasting chicken rolls, and saw our class teached talk in the lizard language, which mainly were barely audible curses, spelt out in the hissing tone of Harry Potter. I knew all of them were just reflections of my disturbed mind, and I so totally was not tripping on acid, as Nil suggested when I asked him for some suggestion. School passed, and I came back home, feeling sick. Thankfully no tuition for me today, so no more anthromorphic lizards romping around. But wait, did I just see a lizard in green nighty, the one which grandma wears? Yes, I did, and there she was inquiring about how my school was, and how pale I was looking, all of it in her lizard tongue. I dared not peek at dadu's room, 'cos I knew I'd end up watching a lizard reading a newspaper. And I didn't want that to happen, and I dared not ask for food, 'cos I knew all I'd get were dead insects. I changed my clothes, and slipped into the home attire. I dared not look at the mirror, all I'd find was a fat, yellow, button eyed lizard. Then I turned on the computer, planning to check out how many of my FB friends were lizards now, and how may humans. But I just ended up reading over the internet all types of data I could find about the lizards. I read that lizards could see more amount of colours than the humans ever could, and they all together had a different perspective regarding colours, they also had weak hearing senses, mainly relying on vibrations of the surface. After a while, I just fell asleep, I guess.
           I woke up at the sound of the ringing door bell, I knew baba-maa were back, my new, all-improved lizard baba-maa. But wait, those people entering the room, they are normal humans! This is not supposed to happen, they should be like me, all yellow, rubbery, and strange. I heard baba enquire about where I was, to which diya said I'd just went out. Baba thought aloud that I must have been smoking. And then I heard maa shriek, the obvious! " A lizard. Maro tiktiki-take!" And baba actually tried to hit me with the broom. I realised I was the only lizard around, who was not a human. Damn! Time to get away! And I was astonished with my agility, and the speed with which I climbed up the wall. This is cool!
          I escaped, and hid behind the tube shed. But I knew this was the dwelling place of the true lizards, not anthromorphic creeps like me, and they wouldn't really appreciate my presence. So I had to escape, I exited through the window into the outside world, and boy wasn't it wonderful! The sky was pink, the wall was red, the winds were strong, and I was dead. No time for poetics, asshole! I though aloud. I decided the need to move, but where? This is.. this was my home. This is where I live, I eat, I love, I cry. Where do I go now? Nowhere. There's nowhere else to go. So I, travelled from the bedroom towards the dining room. It took some time, but i finally ended near the dining room window. And from what I observed, it was dinner time already, and dadu diya were completing their dinner. Boy, time does flow fast when you're a lizard. I saw for the first time, myself, wearing that usual red tee and my white shorts. Was I fat! But I couldn't help appreciate the innocence, and the maturity, which coexisted over my face. I was mightily impressed by myself. Who could guess that all that went on behind those beautiful eyes were mindless shits, and mostly unemotive obscenities. I saw everyone complete their dinner, then the usual chores carried out by each member of the family. Then everyone went to the bedroom. Simpsons time. I had the urge to wait and observe myself again. Don't lizards feel hungry, or bowel movements? It's been ages since I ate, or pissed, but there was just no feeling of that sort.
          I saw myself coming, getting ready for bed, now that he was over his usual dillema. I moved in a bit closer, to observe better, though not daring to go too near, knowing my fear of reptiles. I saw myself closing the windows. Haha. Sissy. Then I saw him, myself coming towards me. Boy, I was pretty, I almost fell in love with myself.
          Suddenly, I realised a bone crushing pain on my back. Something was cutting me apart. I knew it was the window, and it was pushing itself on me. I screamed out loud, cursing that fat bastard, but what the hell, the stupid thing didn't even stir. Wait. Now he's looking towards me. Maybe he'll leave me, not be like me, the myself of last night, or was it tonight again? Was I time travelling, was this all a practical joke being played on me by the superior psychic beings? Confusion riddled me, but only for a split second. Then the fat cow pulled the window harder.... and ouch.... the pain.... oww.... and........

          ..... and the lizard halved. The upper part, fell on the inside ledge of the window, over the salt jar. The lower part of the body, it disappeared into the outside world, probably fell all the three storeys into the gorund below. The face remained the same, the little hands, like the pose of a surrender, and honey coloured body fluids dripped along the body of the glass jar. I decided to keep that window open, the tail might come in search of the head you know. That night, i slept unnaturally quite, no rumblings of nose gun, no nice dreams, a pretty deep slumber. May the soul of that lizard rest in peace. And then, a nice, dark sleep.

This is the weirdest shit I've ever written. It actually is inspired by a true event of slicing off a lizard, and the idea had been buried in my head for long. Tonight, while observing the war of the lizards, a fight for two of the most ancient needs, area, and women, the idea resurfaced. I don't expect much critical appreciation.