Meltdown

  The signs began in a small manner. Hardcore sweating, numbness, constant laxness. I couldn't concentrate on being an artist anymore. There was no more inspiration. The world was turning into a giant jelly jar, and I was simply surviving in it. I could feel myself slowly dissolving into that jelly. I thought it must have been too much pressure to meet the due dates. Donna thought otherwise. Sweating like pig wasn't a good sign to her, even though I tried to convince her. Pigs don't sweat, horses do.

  We visited the doctor. Dozens of test, autopsies, rest of the crap. He said he'd contact me once he got the reports. He did. Me and Donna visited him one fine evening. And that's when I got to know, I was suffering from a critical case of meltdown. I was melting away. And there was nothing anyone could do about it anymore. We were too late, it was the last stage.

  We came back home. That night, there was no dinner. From the next day, Donna took a leave. Atleast that's what she said. I think she left her job. There was no more showers for me. No more sponges. No more soap. No more soggy soups. Just hard boiled veg and eggs. Donna wanted me to stay solid. Stick to my ground. Stay there, beside her, standing.

  But nothing stopped the melting. Everyday, the bed would be mucky in the morning. I insisted her to not sleep with me. She didn't listen. There was no more daily activities like peeing, shitting, brushing, bathing. She made me suckle onto ice cubes. And I was okay. I was to become one with the universal jelly. The all encompassing slimy muck which I'd see around me everywhere nowadays.

  Then one fine morning, I realised I couldn't creep out of the bed anymore. I shouted for Donna. She came, she picked me up. I was now the size of a 5 year old. She placed me in a bucket. The same bucket in which I'd once puke when I got too drunk to boost my artistic frenzy. I was okay with it I suppose. The whole day, I watched the television, peeking out from the inside of the bucket.

  The next day, I was liquid. I was disappointed, I thought I'd be jelly, colourful, wobbly, fun to play with. I'd just turned out to be a bucketful of creamy mud. Donna cried when she saw me. I asked her to take a sip from the bucket. I really wanted to know how I tasted. She cried louder. A bit too morbid request for her, I guessed. Finally she transferred me into a mug, and we headed towards the hospital.

  The doctor saw me. He said he was sorry. He also offered me to stay over in the hospital. They'd wanted to do some studies on me. I wasn't sure about it. I couldn't speak. I was just a mug full of mud. Donna refused to let me go. The doctor offered money. Donna was stubborn. So he offered her to stay with me in the hospital. I guess she reconsidered. We needed the money. She did.

  They transferred me to a nice, cozy room, a nice, cozy bed. A nice, cozy mug. I was under observation. Donna was sitting beside me. She sat there for a full day. Then she lost consciousness suddenly while trying to check me out inside the mug. She had refused to eat. She had become weak. So she fainted. I saw them taking her away, while I lay there in the floor.

  Donna had knocked over the mug when she fell. I was on the floor mostly, and a bit of me was in the bed. I could hear the nurses screaming, I saw the doctor panicking.

  The cleaner came. He moped me up, put me in a rusty bucket, and finally flushed me down the toilet bowl. I could finally feel a oneness with the universal jelly. It and I were finally becoming one. I rushed down the sewers.

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  When Donna came back to the room the next day, she found a new mug. Suddenly, she skipped a heartbeat. What if Eric wasn't there inside the mug? What if he'd left, angry with her leaving him all alone? She paced up to the mug, and there was Eric in it. Eric was there, in his full, slimy glory, almost basking in his victory over mankind.

  She cuddled the mug. She'd live the rest of her life with this mug full of Eric. She was decided on that. She had Eric with her, there, in that mug. She'd always have him.

Respawn

  It was getting dark. The room was getting dark. There were too many people. And the windows were all closed. He tried to look around, but these hospital beds, they don't let you move. Or maybe it was because of that cringey neck of his. Whatever it was, he knew he didn't have much time left. All these people who had gathered around, they were here because he was about to die. And so they could mourn his passing away, and yet breath easily as they themselves had now more space to occupy in this cosmic circus. He could feel it inside, like a push was being exerted on him, as if someone was just knocking on incessantly on the door, and he had to go and attend to it. Forceful, yet gracious. That push was urging him to let go of whatever worldly ties he had left, atleast the ones he could still feel.
  He knew he wouldn't be seeing the sun shine again over the sea, which was just a few feets away from his home near that posh sea town, or hear birds coo in a spring night making sweet, sweet love. He knew life was just about to jump out of his infinity bound roof. The push was getting stronger, the urge, stronger.
  Had he spent a good life? Well, he raised his kids well, he never really cheated, that is, he didn't have any coital relationships out of his marriage bonds, anything below that doesn't count. He always had had friends, friends who loved him, laughed along with him, and even cried a few times when he tried to make them laugh too hard. He had worked faithfully, he never really bitched about his boss, he accepted whatever salary he was paid, never accepted bribes, in cash. He had sent his son abroad, he had married off his daughter, his wife was dead already. What else could he have asked for before death? A last bite of that amazing shorshe ilish his mother used cooked once, that maybe. And suddenly food reminded him of his mother, his father, and all those long deceased, and long left behind images of men and women. He wanted a mother again, a father again, he wanted a new home, a new life, a new chance again. Suddenly, the life he had lived didn't seem satisfactory enough anymore. He had survived a world war, a division of his mother land, multiple wars across the world, multiple ups and downs in the economic chart. He had survived labour strikes, student agitations, police brutality, mob madness, he had survived history. He was mankind itself. Suddenly he felt he had seen so much, felt so much, yearned so much, dreamed so much, yet he was just about to die in a crummy hospital room which smelled of that clean, hygienic death.
  He deserved more, his kind deserved more. He felt the whole mankind, the whole history of it, all the billion and zillion figures, all the achievements well up in him. He was about to burst open in a prudent atomic explosion, and if he did, this world, and all its revelers would see the history enacted before them, and they'd be so lucky to shake hands with so many great footsoldiers of a vast civilisation. He felt the push, he just wished this push to open him up before the world and show them what they have forgotten and buried in their civic closets, all the brutality, all the crudity, and yet all the beauty in between those vulgar fluid, wasted in time.
  He once saw in a movie that when you're about to die, all your ancestors gather around you to take you back to your cradle. But he couldn't see anyone of them around. He had seen his parents alive, his grandparents too. And even the great-grandparents, he had seen their hazed out photos. But no one had come to receive him. Did it mean he wouldn't be dying this time? But the doc had given his words, he had assured his children that they can shed a few tears now, finally. He had seen the whole of it enacted before him, so that surely means he's about to die. Then, why haven't they come to receive him? Are they all too inside him, this tiny cage of his, were they pushing him too? Pushing him towards a final resting place? Or maybe were they waiting just on the other side of the frail veil he could see form before him, waiting to receive him in open arms?
  His eyes were clouding up, he felt confused. Was he happy he was about to die, or did he still want a little bit more taste of the worldly boundaries. He couldn't understand, he couldn't understand himself, or his emotions, or this world anymore. Was he to die a bitter old man, or a satisfied human being who had found his answers among the wordless scribbles behind the math book of destiny itself?
  He didn't know. And he didn't want to anymore. He could see the light outside the tunnel. He knew his end bound chariot had arrived. And he could feel himself being pushed towards the light. It was getting brighter, brighter by every eternity long nanosecond. He wanted to wave a last goodbye, give a last kiss to this world of his, this beloved world, but it was too late already. He was boarding his chariot, the light was blinding around him, the light, oh the sweet, warm light, the sweet sunshi...

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  The about-to-be-a-first-time-father was pacing around tensely, when the doctor shot out of the labour him, bouncing towards him, his own brother he felt

"Dada, it's a girl, it's a girl, dada!" shot out the young man. The now-definitely-a-father stood perplexed for a moment or two, and then dashed towards the labour room then and there, rightfully followed by his elders, and her elders now. They all were eager to welcome the new sunshine, like a new dew drop to soothe, however temporarily, their worn out souls into this worldly abode. 

  The wait, was over. The new one, had arrived

Midnight Duel With Mr. Eliot

You see, the problem with you sitting down to read this piece, is that you are just wasting your time, dear sir. There is nothing to be seen, or done, or felt here, right at this very moment. If you think this is some new form of poetry, then no sir, this is no poem, and I am no poet. I, am just a hollow man, just like a hundred others. We all are but hollow men.


  We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

We, the men of darkness, we wait in the cellars and dungeons, and underneath heap of fossilised skulls bearing the tooth mark of unknown ages. We all are but the hollow men, hollow to the deepest corners of our cranium cavity, with blood trickling between our legs. We are but the menstruating waste of our time, ready to be spat out by some overbearing frugal vagina.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

    In death's dream kingdom

    These do not appear:

    There, the eyes are

    Sunlight on a broken column

Our solace is in our knowledge of the final answer to bitter, bloody, vengeful love, a knowledge which tells us we are but humans, and we are lying, lying to our ancestors for drilling up our cranium cavity so we can find an empty space to hide our face, and cry and whimper in our dreams about the sunlight we stole from the Garden of Zeus.

Is it like this

    In death's other kingdom

    Waking alone

    At the hour when we are

    Trembling with tenderness

    Lips that would kiss

    Form prayers to broken stone.

We walk alone, we are a generation of trekkers, each finding a route to our spirit, which lost its way in the Arab deserts, long before the Lawrence left his mark in the hundred sandy clitorises and left on a train back home, sipping away his tea of China. Oh, China, it makes me think, what if confusion and Confucion are but the same, the same like me, like the hollow men.

The eyes are not here

    There are no eyes here

    In this valley of dying stars

    In this hollow valley

    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

They call us sightless. We might be the unintelligible scum of the earth, but we, sirs, are not sightless. We are the hollow men, the evidences of time's carnal dance of death on the face of our Earth. Yes sirs, you heard it right, we belong to this Earth, to this soil, and you in your presumptuous little bunny holes, waiting to violate another lost Alice. This is our kingdom, this unhallowed muck, forever a sterile mother of ours, singing lullabies to her hundred dead children.

The eyes reappear

    As the perpetual star

    Multifoliate rose

    Of death's twilight kingdom

    The hope only

    Of empty men.

You see Mr. Eliot? We are your last hope. We, the hollow men, are your last chance at killing a new Frankenstein, a new Achilles, a new Saddam, a newer Grimreaper.

 Between the desire

    And the spasm

    Between the potency

    And the existence

    Between the essence

    And the descent

    Falls the Shadow

But we are the hollow men, as you must remember, sirs. We are not beggars, we are the betrayers, and we betray not our brothers, but our masters, so come forth my brothers, this is our holy war, against these fine specimens of social lubricants and cultural moisturisers and saintly cunts. For all that is crude, and all that is sexy, and all that is a pile of shitty whisky, avenge our fathers and mothers, and avenge our lost souls, for all are but the hollow men, hollower than you'll ever be.

 This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    Not with a bang but a whimper.

Storybook Characters In Love

"And as they gasped for their last breaths, shared a kiss of death, they knew it wouldn't be long before their still, lifeless bodies lay deep down there, below that deep blue veil of ocean. But they were happy, they knew they'd never part anymore. Lovers till death, and after..." My story was almost complete. I just need a final fag to approve it.

"You know, fuck you man. I don't wanna die, neither do I want her to die."

The voice in the dark, supposedly lonely room startled me, there wasn't supposed to be any other living object inside the room other than me. So you see it's obvious that a voice not belonging to me would definitely scare me.

" Wh-who is this?"

"Why, don't you recognise me? I am one of the "forlorn" lovers, your creation, your masterpiece!"

The sarcasm was obvious even behind the panting but loud voice.

"Err, what is this, some kinda' trick or something?"

I turned around, and the faint light from the monitor screen made the silhouette visible. A drenched silhouette, as was obvious from the pool of water getting formed quickly on the floor. I understood I was dreaming, and I decided to play on with the game.

"Umm, so you're like, this imaginary character, the one about whom I'm writing about at present? That's what you mean to say?"

"Yes, father."

"Father?"

"Well , since you are my creator, so you are my father, in that sense. A father who is about to drown his son in the cold ocean along with his beloved."

"You mean your sister, right?" I chuckled.

"Erm, yeah, I, I guess so."

"So, you're totally into incest, I see. What a proud father I must be!" It was my turn now to hit him with an overdose of acrimony.

"I don't care if it's incest, or shit! I love her, do you get that, man?" The reference to incest had obviously infuriated him. I laughed wholeheartedly inside, it gives you such a moral boost when you take a dig at someone. Even if he is your own creation.

"So why exactly are you shouting, 'son'? I'm making you immortal, by killing you." That didn't sound right.

"Why shouldn't I? You are just sitting there like a big baboon and killing me and my love. You're just murdering us! Who gives you the right?! What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

"Err, well, I am the writer here, so shouldn't I really have the right to do whatever I want with my story?"

"Well, no, I mean, I see you're point, but you really can't just kill us of like that! What about the life we still have left to live, to love, to make love? You just waste us if you kill us!" Aww, the kid sounds emotional. A bit.

"Someone is eager to get laid, I see. Well, you see 'son', the story demands that you two must die. Only then will the greater good of love be understandable to the reader. You two shall emblaze the concept of true love again in the heart of today's generation! You two shall be my masterpiece! My Magnum Opus, my El Magnifico, etc etc." I was lying, this was just another one of my commissioned projects. I get over with this crappy story, and I get some extra cash for week. That's it.

"Yes, definitely, especially when the masterpiece is just another among the thousand renditions of that same old crappy Homeo Juliet drama. Man, why did old Shaks have to write that piece, he was doing so well with his historical novels and stuff."

"Erm, err, I agree the ending is the same, but, err, it isn't exactly Romeo Juliet revisited or anything." The hell it was. Who'd have time enough to think about new concepts to write about every week? Not me, I was just in this business because it paid good, sometimes.

"I don't care, 'father'! What is important is that you are letting two young lovers die! That's blasphemy, you get me?"

"Okay. Why do you exactly care what happens with you in the future. You're just a goddamn storybook character. You die, I write some extra shitty dialogues, and bang, the story is over. The reader closes the book, and goes to the bathroom to pee, or goes to get a fag. That's it. The end of you, and me." Okay, I shouldn't have tagged myself along with him.

"I don't care! I don't care if the reader goes away to philospohise about love, or just plain masturbate. I want my happy ending, just like everyone else!"

"Well, guess what sunshine, life ain't all about happy endings. There's more to it." Yeah, right, a shitty apartment, a shitty girlfriend, a shitty job, a shitty cheese sandwich, and constipation, that's the "more" to my life.

"You forgot 'father', I'm a storybook character, and I want my happy ending, goddammit. I've left her out there in the open sea, alone. She must be really cold by now. So you, mister, will right now bring a cruise ship or something, take us onboard, and get us into some honeymoon suite or something." Ahh, young love.

"It's placed in the 19th century, and in a really stormy Bay of Bengal, you just can't expect a cruise ship, can you?"

"You get us a cruise ship right now, OR. ELSE."

The figure now started walking towards me with zombie steps. I couldn't see his face clearly. I guess I didn't really imagine their faces while writing.

"Erm, wha-what are you doing? I'm your father. You can't do th-" He was strangling me now, and boy, did he have powerful wrists. But I didn't remember making him so strong, on the contrary he was supposed to be nimble and tender. What the heck, I guess the power of love, and libido carves even the softest ones into the hardest, no pun intended there.

"Awright, awright, I-i-i'll do it, I'll d-do it." The hold lightened.

"Good. Very good. Angul bakano is always the best pontha I see. Now, you'll get us into that cruiseship, take us back home, give us a royal wedding. And you will publish this story. And if you dare change a single line, father, that'd be last line of your life. Ashi apatoto" The shadow went away. It wasn't a dream, I could feel my sore throat still ache. I changed the ending and wrote it just the way he wanted it to be. I won't be taking risks anymore, they might just be setting down some committee already with all those characters which I killed. Inquiry commissions are the best way to banshofy people nowadays, as you know already. And boy, I know better now about messing with my sons and daughters. Also, I have to get this piece published, though that'd surely mean the end of my career. No one gets away with such absurd pieces. But, but wait a minute. My hope can be those, half-intellectual, full-ass critics, who just might agree to promote this to be some new entry into the literary faction of absurdity, and save my face, and my income, and the rest of my life, in return for some good old scotch.

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Sadly, the critics didn't think this to be some crazy ass modernist piece, they just tagged me intellectually dead. And so, ended my career as the creator. Sigh, one should never mess with his creations.

A Lovestory [Almost]

When I was a kid, I had a pet ghost. He used to be my friend. He used to be my only friend.
He used to play the game of nothingness with me, he used to sing me songs when sleep never came in sleepless nights, he never showed me my road down the abyss. He was the ideal friend, maybe.
And then, one day we fought, we fought and we fought and we fought, till the sky above was on a fire. Forest fire, illuminating a hundred homes up in the sky right above our head. We fought some more. And then came rain. She drenched us both, him, with his shadow, me with my ego. And she took away our fight.
She took him, and left me, to be a new ghost.
I grew up. I decided being a ghost wasn't my perfect profession. I tried to be an astronaut, so I'd find him outside there, near the gates of something called heaven. But I never found that place. I tried to be a musician, but my music was a sound of today, not yesterday. I decided I'd become a celebrity, so that I find new ghosts. But there was nothing such as a ghost, only skeletal Diasporas with gas masks locked inside their head. So I finally decided to be a writer.
I write about my ghost. My pet ghost. My shadow. And sometimes, about me. All this while, I have tried to find him. I searched for him, I tried to leave him, I tried to forget him. But he was always there, right outside the garden fence of my consciousness, into the hollow cavity cove deep inside some desperate soul, rumbling out sometimes to prove his existence to me. He was out there, or in here, but we never were face to face.
Today, I finally decided to stop thinking about him, and there, now he is sitting right before me. He is sitting in that chair, facing me, his shadow wrapped around him like a mink coat. And that shadow is slowly extending its paws at me.
Different things scare different people. For some, true fear may come from beyond the grave, taking the form of shambling zombies and vengeful skeletons. For others, fear may be born from our own vanity, twisting us inside and out into mutated, murderous monsters. Still others may find fear's ultimate expression in the unknown sounds and sensations that lie just beyond our perception. And of course, for some reason, many of us are most afraid of the soul-crushing loneliness of a live lived without love. That, and little girls.
And me, I'm scared of my ghost. My pet ghost. A ghost who is now a man, and stares at me, a ghost, an unforgiven friend, and a forgotten lover.

Mourning with Cloud in it

  Memories. That's what we all have left at the end of the day, na? Everyone, everyone important has always said this to me. And these memories live using mediums like chairs, boxes, trees, cats. For me, it's the song through which each memory lives. Each memory, imbibed into certain songs. Each individual, each individual who matters has a song tag beside them, in my brain. Now these songs, I'm generally fond of most of them. I might not listen to them, but when I do, I feel so good. But good is not so good sometimes for me. Hence I avoid certain songs, but I never manage to gather enough guts to delete those songs from the hard disk, or from my playlist, because they have been imbibed in my brain like wires into electronic chips.
  Now there is this one specific song, which I'm really scared to listen, but I do always end up listening to it none the less. It's this song, y'know, an instrumental piece, just a single piano. And when it starts playing, I launch into an overdrive, image, one single, disturbing image lingers inside my head for what seems to be an eternity, but is actually just a few minutes. When I wake up again, I always end up cursing myself for my own weak, tender, even callous mind, letting my soggy eyes look straight into that cauldron of memories.
  The images, what they are, you ask? They aren't much, just a cloudy evening, with a purple sky, and clouds hanging in the distance over skyscrapers like an iridescent crown, changing their colour every few minutes from orange to brown to lilac and back to dusty orange. An empty, dusty road four storeys below, basking in their orange glory of loneliness. Sound of the rustling leaves of giant trees getting mistletoed by suburb bound trains of a daylong struggle, barking dogs in the distance getting into barking dog fights. And high above all this, like Olympian ancients, two teenagers sitting and getting absorbed in the "Nuvole Bianche", white clouds surrounding them. This is the image. And for you it might not sound much, but for me it is something of the likes of a psychic seductress, suddenly bringing forth a certain age of mine before my eyes, making me think and feel and be sad like I was then. This me, is not me.
  And so I decide for the umpteenth time never again to set my sight on that song again, only to disavow my own rule and go back to it later again. I think I know who my pied piper is. Songs. Songs like these, and songs in general. Songs, and memories.

Christmas Gift.

You: Pick up the phone, idiot.


Me: Wha.. who the fuck? Eto shokale? *looks at the phone* She woke up so early? Something must be wrong. *picks up the phone* Hello?


You: Dude, you won't believe what just happened!


Me: Great. I don't want to. Let me just go back to sleep, willya'?


You: Fuck you, this is important. Shon na ki hoyechhe!


Me: *sigh* Bol.


You: Today, I just woke up, and I found this box beside my bed. A box full of memories!


Me: Great. I guess you've been a good girl, tai Santa khushi hoyechhe tomar upor.


You: Duur bara! Khali khilli marchhe! Be excited! I got a box, a very precious box!


Me: Yeah, great. congratulations. *yawns*


You: Fuck you. Tui sala kono interest dekhachhis na. The first person I, I call up in the morning just mukh'er upor hai tule jachhe. Chutiya.


Me: Alright, alright. Fine. Interest dekhachhi. Ki emon important achhe bakshotay, je eto akulota?

You: Told you na, memories!

Me: I thought that was part of your rhetorics or something. You really got memories? Maane, how? Long lost brain'er harano tukro gulo peyechhis naki?


You: Duur shala. Sheshob na. Remember I once told you that when we shifted to our new house, amar ek baksho jinish pottor hariye gechhilo? Shei bakshota! Magical, na?


Me: Dude, it's been friggin 10 years. Hothat kore etodin baade, how?

You: I don't know, I don't know. I just feel so happy re! But, but you know, I always kinda' knew ekdin ami phire paboi amar harano bakshota.

Me: What? Youd been waiting for this package for 10 years now? Maane, you had been expecting all these years it'd reach you? 

You: Yes, yes! Stupid, na? But stupid people are right, and I have my box! You know what's in there? Putuls!

Me: Dolls? Oh my fucking god! You mean to say you played with dollies? Haha!


You: Keno re? Khelte pari na? Pari na ami?!

Me: Ofcourse, maane khelte chaile ar ke atkabe. To think over it, physically I guess you do pass off as a girl, but dude! Not anything else! Maane, the mean badass chick who drinks like a hairy redneck, used to play with dollies? Hilarious man, just hilarious!

You: Haha, very funny! It also had casettes, you know? Rabindrasangeets, Srutinattos, Kobitas.

Me: What?! Rabindrasangeets too?

You: Yes. Chhoto thekei shuntam. Ekhono shuni, jokhon Maa sings. Maa sings very well, y'know.

Me: Naa, maane, I know you have a Rabindric family, but tui to gaiteo parish na, nachteo parish na, porashona-tao khub kichhu korish na eishob line-e. Tobe Rabindranath-er sathe shomporko-ta kothay tor?


You: Rokte. I have him inside me.
Me: Dafuq?! You sound like godzilla now, "inside me"!

You: Fuck you! You are so mean!

Me: Haha! Olebabale, rege gechhe. Nana, ar na. Ajker jonne enough chat kheyechhis.

You: Thank you for this kindness of yours. Janish, it also had books. Jungle Book!

Me: 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.

You: Shetai, feeling ta ar same thake na. Shei freshness-ta.

Me: 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.

You: Kothay boipottor, kothay jhora pata. You really should stop taking drugs, y'know.

Me: Gandu. You had to make a totally stupid joke right now na, just when we were having some serious shit discussion?
 But ami kintu ekhono bujhlam na, why are you so excited about that box, if all that it contains are relics?

You: Because they are my memories. Memories I was robbed off. Keu to firiye debe boleni, tao aj dekh, hothat kore peye gelam. Life never ever stopped from making me smile.

Me: Memories? Dolls, and casettes, and books, eguloi tor childhood? Kinda' shallow if you ask me.

You: Shallow? Do you even understand how important they were for me. They were my identity, my childhood. I lost my identity when I was a child. That box, right there beside my bed, freshly opened, represents my lost childhood!

Me: Boro beshi chechachhis. Rege jachhis keno? Dekh amar mote memories are the images stored inside this hollow cranium chamber right above our eye. 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.

You: You seriosuly are stupid, na? Don't you get what I say. They are my childhood!

Me: No. You've had your childhood. Those stuff cannot be your childhood. Your childhood, you've left it behind. I mean.. err... I mean you've had your share of your fun.

You: Fun? Fun?! Is that what you call fun? You know everything about me there is to be known about. And you still say fun?

Me: You're the one who always says she had a normal bachcha bela. Then why this odbhut claim for a speciality tag today?

You: Yes. I like to believe I had a normal childhood. A normal childhood which I hope no child has to face again, it was that normal! But that's about me. You, how can you tag it as normal?! You know all my pains! How can you still say all this then?


Me: Okay. Okay. I withdraw. I'm sorry. You are right. You are right all the way. But what I just want to say is, why make a few casettes and books take the pride in being your childhood. It's more precious than that. Tai na?


You: Yes, maybe. But.. Chhar, you won't understand. I shouldn't expect you to understand. You should just go and sleep. It's Christmas morning, and it's early. Don't waste your sleep on me. I'm sorry.


Me: No man, I'm sorry. Sorry for ruining your Christmas mood. But you know something, I'm really happy you finally found that box. I remember now, how fondly you talked about it back then. Treasure it, like the way I treasure my chithis.


You: Yeah, well. Heh. Thanks. Tui jaa, ghuma ekhon. And remember, bikele we are meeting kintu. Remember to bring some gift for me.


Me: You've got the best of the gifts possible, bitch, you still ask more?


You: Yes. Hihi! I'm greedy!


Me: I see. I'll see what I can bring.


You: Yeah, bye! And a Merry Christmas.


Me: Yeah, Christmas to you too, woman. Chumus and love. Bye.




This is something which I wrote months ago. This is just a revised version. And a Christmas gift.