The Chocolate Box

Nira was sitting in her cubicle going over an excel sheet, when the peon came and gave her the package. Clumsily wrapped in blue, it had a small "Sorry" note stuck to it. Almost a week had passed since her fight with him. With much anticipation, she peeled off the paper and opened the box. 
Nira let out a mild chuckle, that reduced to a happy drop in the corner of her eye. They were seashells made of chocolate; six seashells, each a different shape and color. She picked up the one that looked like a mussel, and put it in her mouth. Rich dark chocolate met her tongue, as she rolled it over before taking a bite. Cherry gelee flooded her with surprise! She could wait no more; each shell seemed like a lost conversation in the last six days. One by one she took a shell and plopped it in- a conch shell with streaks of white, milk and dark chocolate, a crooked oyster shell that hid a pearl of a hazelnut within, caramel filled cockle shells, and even a milk chocolate snail shell with a rum center. 
The last one was a pristine white shell, wide and flat with ridges like that of a scallop. As she lifted it she saw a small note beneath. "Call me", it said. Nira let her taste buds dance to the final flourish of white chocolate and coconut cream as she wiped away the tears and dialed his number.

Chulhe ki daal

Kashi filled her dented old aluminium pot with a handful of yellow lentils, water and salt. She scraped off the papery skin of a withered ginger root and grated a fingertip worth of it into the pot. The mud stove burnt low, so she poked about in the timber sack. A couple of twigs were all that was left. She needed more or the bread would not be made for dinner. By the time Kashi returned with the firewood she'd fetched from the forest, the fire had burnt out into cinders, and the lentils had been simmering for about two hours. With her wooden paddle she whipped the yellowness until it was smooth. 
The dough was being kneaded when  Raghu came back with his bullock cart. Kashi slapped each ball of dough between her palms until they resembled thin discs and then she baked them over the open fire which now crackled with renewed mirth. When Raghu put the first morsel of daal dipped chapati into his mouth, he almost exclaimed with pleasure. He didn't need the heat of a chilly or the pungency of a raw onion to make his meagre meal palatable that night. He ate quietly, relishing the creaminess of the lentils and the smokiness of the bread as they blended on his tongue in a mysterious communion. Throughout the years to come, Kashi would often be questioned as to what made the lentils so special that night.

Manjari

     Manjari got up from the teakwood master bed at six in the morning. She didn’t need an alarm clock to announce the time to her. She always woke up early and went straight to the bathroom. After a bath and a change of clothes, it was time for her morning prayers that she performed diligently, never missing a day. The thakurghor was the only place she had to herself; it provided a little peace and quiet away from everyone, since the other members of her family never even ventured near it.

By the time she finished the puja, her husband Shiladitya was up and in the shower. He was the master of the house for all intents and purposes. With the reputation of being an important man amidst their acquaintances, more often than not he had something witty to say. But, he did not believe in luck or the stars or even God for that matter, and thus did not approve of his wife’s religiousness. His disposition was a serious one, and his only misgiving- if you went by the word of mouth- was a short temper; and Manjari had learned, the hard way, to get used to it. All he did in his free time was either watch the news channels or read the newspaper, making pedantic and vehement comments about every issue. In a nutshell, he strived to save the world from its pain, whilst in the comfort of his armchair.

 Manjari went into her sons’ bedroom and saw Arinjoy, the younger of the two, sitting at his reading desk, scribbling down the solutions to calculus problems. “Joy, when did you get up?” she said stroking his wet hair. “Oh, you’ve already bathed?”

“Hmm”, Joy replied, his eyes still on his notebook “Eittoh, I got up about an hour ago.”

“You got up this early to do math?” she asked him with feigned astonishment, secretly happy that he was studying.

“I’ve got my Pre-ISC lurking around the corner, Ma! When am I going to study if not now?”

Manjari smiled in satisfaction. “Okay, but don’t keep at it for too long, you’ll have to get ready. The school bus arrives at 8.”

Joy was the child every parent wanted. 17 years of age, he was in the last year of schooling. Hard-working as well as intelligent, he was consistently among the top students in his class. He was the stereotypical bookworm, but astonishingly quite amiable and boasting a lot of friends. 

Manjari left his side; he did not like to be disturbed while studying. She then went about pursuing the herculean task of getting her 19 year old son Onir up from sleep. He was the quintessential teenage rebel. An average engineering student with a passion for music, he was the bass guitarist in the college band. His inherent introverted nature was often misinterpreted by others as rudeness. He’d given up his christened name of Anirjeet, and adopted the ‘cooler’ version of Onir, which was the way his pet name was pronounced traditionally in Bengali.

“Onir”, she said shaking him, “Onir…get up, you’re gonna be late for college.”

“Hmm”, he muttered in his sleep.

“What hmm?” she shook him again, “Its 7:15 already. Come on, get up and take a shower. You reek of smoke…ish!”

“Uff Ma! I’m not going to college today”, he said and pulled back the covers his mother had lifted off of him.

She removed them once more and exclaimed, “What do you mean you’re not going to college? Huh?”

“I have a jamming session with the guys today; near Kasba.”

“Again? You had one of those just yesterday. I won’t let you bunk your classes every day. Get up this moment, Onir!” she said, quite apparently angry.

Onir knew how to appease her. He sat up on the bed and gave her a bear hug. “Why are you getting hyper Ma? You know we have the performance at the Music Fest next week. We really need to practice, or we won’t have half a chance against the other bands. You know how important this is to me. And anyway, we don’t have any major classes today; no labs even. Please Ma; don’t make me go to college today.”

Manjari displayed her serious face but underneath, her heart had melted. “Okay, just this time. But you’ll have to attend college regularly, starting tomorrow. Do you understand? I never stop you from playing that rock-and-roll or whatever you call it…”

“It’s not rock-n-roll, Ma, it’s rock!” Onir interrupted.

“Yeah, as if you could call that music! Anyway, from now on you’ll practice only after college hours. And I’m not going to hear any excuse; do you get that?”

“Roger that, Ma’am”, he saluted and slumped back into his beloved bed.

“Hey, I let you take a leave from college. I didn’t ask you to sleep all day. Get up now…” she pulled him up.

“Ma! That’s not fair!” he protested while his mother pushed him towards the door of the attached toilet.

“Yeah, yeah I know”, she smiled.

Manjari retreated to the kitchen to prepare food for the three men in her household. She was adding the tomatoes to the curry, when Shiladitya emerged from the bathroom. He had no more than started to dress up when he yelled, “Is this the shirt I asked you to press?”

Manjari hurriedly came to his side, “You asked me to keep your light blue shirt ironed.”

“Light blue, not turquoise you…” he raged at her. “Dumbass” he muttered under his breath.

She gulped down the saliva lodged in her throat, “Oh, I don’t understand all these fancy names for colours, you know that.”

He just shook his head and said, “What are you standing there for? Go, get me the uh… the white shirt” he spat out. Manjari silently complied with him and went back to the kitchen without a word. She knew it was the best way to get his temper back to normal.

_____________________________________________________________________

It was 8:30 and Shiladitya, Manjari and Onir were sitting at the table pecking at their breakfast. Arinjoy was already off to school. Meals were often a silent affair in the Mullick household, with the exception of sudden outbursts of the philosophical kind from Mr Mullick. He’d go on preaching in a passionate tone until the others would nod their reluctant heads in agreement. It was the same this morning. The papers were brimming with the controversy regarding the recent case of a heinous gang-rape committed on a girl in a major metropolitan city. The incident had garnered national attention, and the newspaper companies were bent on exploiting it to their maximum benefit, wringing out all the profit they could, from it.

“Jaatah!” Shiladitya remarked suddenly. Manjari and Onir looked up at him for a moment, and then retraced their gaze back to the table with the floral oilcloth on it. It was just a matter of seconds when he spoke up again.

“Did you read the news? A girl has been gang-raped on a moving bus and left to die on the street. Those bastards! Chhi chhi! The morale of the youth of India is deteriorating day by day. Tch, there is no hope, no hope at all. Can you imagine? Such a big and modern city, and yet such gruesome crimes!” he bellowed throwing the paper violently on the table.

There was just silent chewing of food except for Shiladitya’s outburst. He came to his conclusion, “Something has to be done immediately. Na Na, we can’t encourage such crimes against women any more. It’s high time. The government has to give the perpetrators capital punishment!”

“Oh, don’t get too worked up about it now. As it is, your blood pressure is ever on the rise; and all this stress…this way it won’t ever get back to normal”, Manjari interrupted him.

“He’s got to ease down on the paranthas for that”, Onir joined in.

Shiladitya glared. “Onir, don’t try to be sarcastic with you father”, she rebuked her son.

“Who said I was trying?” he mumbled under his breath.

“What’d you say?” his father asked in a fierce tone.

“Me? Nothing, unh unh”, Onir shook his head.

After that it was all back to normal; the sound of food being chewed, coffee being gulped, or newspaper pages being turned- punctuated by sighs from Shiladitya.

_____________________________________________________________________

It was mid-morning, and Manjari was alone in their three storey marble floored house. Her husband and sons were off to their respective places of work. She had been accustomed to staying alone through the day for many years and had by now become an expert on how to kill time. She didn’t have any real work to do; and there were many appliances in the house to ensure that. The clothes were in the washing machine being flung around in a whirlpool of bubbly detergent broth. The food was cooked and ready. And as for cleaning the rooms, the maid would turn up in the evening and get to work with the rags and a bucket full of water. Manjari, not wanting to sit idle, took down the showpieces from the shelves and polished their already spotless bodies with a towel. When she’d finished with that, the TV was turned on. It was not even 10 minutes into her favourite family drama, when the cable went off and the screen became all fuzzy. Left with nothing else to do, she sucked the sofa and the cushions dry with the vacuum cleaner that buzzed on full power. There was something about that deafening noise that blocked everything out.

It was about 11, when she went to the terrace to check on her plants. If there was one hobby that Manjari held close to her heart, it was gardening. The very idea of watching something grow and being able to aid it in the process, made her feel wholesome. Apart from the hibiscus and the holy basil that grew in the backyard, the terrace had been converted to a treasure trove of flora, thanks to her. There were the obvious tubs of seasonal flowers. This winter, she had roses- red, yellow and white, pink camellias, orange marigolds, blue orchids, purple pansies and those ever-present boughs of bougainvillea that hung from the wall. In her small herb patch grew lime, coriander, curry leaves, and chilly. And then there were decorative ones like the aloe vera and the prickly cacti which surprisingly grew in all kinds of weather.

She took her metal watering can, and watched contentedly as the water rained down on her plants from its perforated mouth. Just like Nigella Lawson would say about bashing biscuits to rubble, this was somewhat ‘therapeutic’ for her. She liked to drag her fingers over any small sapling that she’d discover, almost like caressing a little one. All the bright colours stood witness to her labour of love, and she loved basking in the winter sun while looking at them.

She was plucking some limes when a man called from the terrace adjoining to hers, “Ah! Mrs Mullick, how are you doing?”

Manjari looked up with a smile, “Ei cholche. What about you, Kundu da? How is your foot now? Hriju told me that you got it sprained after a bad fall?”

Hrittik Kundu was the immediate neighbour of the Mullicks’. A widower in his mid-fifties, with a job as a Professor of Philosophy and a passion for Tagore, he lived with his son Hriju. Like Manjari, he shared an interest in gardening, and his terrace too boasted of many flowers in bloom.

“Pretty good” he said looking at his left foot. “I wrapped it up in crepe bandage for two nights and now it’s back to form. I say, your roses look very pretty. You’ll have to keep an eye on the monkeys now.”

“Touchwood. God knows how hard I’ve worked for the flowers this year. It’ll be very sad if the monkeys attack again. Anyway, it’s good to hear that you’re well now.”

Then she took three of the limes in her hand and passed it over to him, across the wall that separated the two adjacent houses, “Here you go. Gondhoraj limes; very fragrant.”

Kundu da rubbed them between his palms, smelled the citrusy aroma and thanked her. “These will perk up even plain dal-bhaat­, won’t they? Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure. But don’t worry; I will claim my share of the deal in summer. You owe me 3 mangoes” she joked. And they both laughed out at this absurd fruit bartering deal.

“How come you’re home today? Don’t you have classes to teach?” Manjari asked him.

“Vacations come earlier for government colleges, Mrs Mullick!”

“So, you’ll be busy with Tagore for the entire month I guess?”

“Apart from the exam paper corrections, yes. In fact, I have been reading ‘Sesher Kobita’ all over again.”

Then he began to recite a certain verse from the novel, “Aaji majhe majhe amar chhayare, dulaye khelayo taari ek dhare, shey chhayari shathe hashiya milayo koloddhwoni- diyo taare bani je bani tomar chirontoni.” In the meanwhile, she listened to his soulful voice with its impeccable oration of the beautiful lines, absorbing the essence of the poem into her being. She could imagine it all in her mind- the shadow swinging to the motion of the cascade, whose eternal gurgling sounded like laughter. She almost went into a trance for a few seconds. When he stopped, she just managed to give a wry smile and say, “That was…beautiful”, all the time staring intently at his face.

Kundu da said, “Oh! It’s nothing. Bhimroti, these are the fancies of old age! Of course, it was a different thing when your Boudi was alive. I used to write letters to her with excerpts from this very book.” He smiled to himself, maybe at pleasant memories from the past.

Manjari’s face showed a slight flicker of disdain, but she regained her merry countenance, “Well, what do they say? Age is just a number.”

“That it is.” He laughed and added, “Well, I’d be more than happy to lend the book to you if you’d like.”

“That would be great.”

So while he went inside to fetch the book, she brushed her fingers on the rose petals, passing down to the stalk and finally to the thorny stem, where she lingered for a few moments. He came back with the book in his hand, faded light orange in colour, and gave it to her.

“Thank you again. I’ll finish it and return it to you by next week.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Manjari smiled again. Suddenly she said, “Oh! I’ve got the rice on boil. It must have turned to mush by now. I’ve got to go, Kundu da. See you later.” And then without waiting for a reply, she went out of the terrace. About half a dozen of tubs that still needed to be watered were forgotten. Going to the bedroom, she kept the book on the bedside table and turned on the radio. Then she lay down on the bed, while ‘amaro porano jaha chay’ played on.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_____________________________________________________________________

Manjari was sitting on the sofa, waiting for her husband to come home. Every light in the house was turned on, and she just sat there all stoic and steady, counting the seconds to when the bell would ring. Everything was in order, dinner cooked, bed made, clothes arranged. She thought of watching television for some time, to help her mind deviate from the melancholy thoughts. Her stomach cringed with the cramps of her time of the month. It was a pleasant summer night, and a cool breeze blew, but she was sweaty. The doorbell rang once. Manjari froze. It rang again. She collected her senses, and turned off the TV, before unlocking the door.

“What took you so long?” Shiladitya asked almost in an uninterested manner.

“I was in the other room.”

He entered and went straight to the bathroom while she set the table. Ten minutes later, the couple was sitting at the dining table, silently eating their food while a news reporter read out the headlines on the TV.

“Do you want some more gravy?” she asked him.

“No, I’m full”, he was apparently not so much interested in the food.

Manjari panicked, “Oma! Won’t you have another spoon of rice? Here, have some.”

“Manjari, I told you I don’t want any!” he said with firm resilience and pushed away the second helping in her hand.

She shut up. Shiladitya finished his meal early. She kept pecking at the grains of rice like a chicken in a coop. A few minutes later, he still found her chewing her cold food, taking all the time she could. “You’re still eating? It’s been an hour since you started.”

“Where? It’s only been 10 minutes. You know I am a slow eater. Anyway, I’m almost done”, she pretended not to notice his impatience.

Reluctantly, Manjari finished her dinner and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then, taking the kitchen soap she began scrubbing the utensils. “What are you doing still now?” he called from the bedroom.

“Doing the dishes.”

“Why’re you doing the dishes at night? Leave them. You’ll wash them in the morning.”

“I don’t like to keep the smelly plates in the sink overnight. I’d rather wash them now and finish the work” she answered back, trying to sound as resolute as possible.

He then came to the kitchen himself, stood behind her and gently removed the bowl she was scrubbing, from her hands. “Come to bed”, he kissed her on the cheek.

She grabbed the edge of the sink for some support, and straightened herself. “You’re going to sleep this early?” she tried to change the subject.

“Don’t make me wait too long”, he rubbed her shoulders and went back.

“Hmm”, she nodded.

She realised all her attempts had been foiled and gave in.

Manjari changed, washed her face a couple of times with cold water and went to the bedroom. Shiladitya was lying down on the bed with his hands behind his head. She brushed her hair in front of the dressing table, trying to extend the act as much as possible. Finally, she turned the lights off and went to bed facing away from him.

He snaked his hand above her waist and snuggled for a few moments before kissing her on the nape of her neck. “I’m tired” she whispered, already knowing that she’d lost.

He did not seem to hear it. Turning her towards himself he smothered her lips with his own. Then his hands travelled from her shoulder bones to her breasts, cupping each and tracing circles before reaching the nipples, which he pinched. “Ach”, she said feebly. He went about undressing her; covering her entire body with the marks of his lips and teeth, but she stopped him as he began to fidget with her petticoat strings. “I’m on my period”, she pushed him off.

“What?” he stared at her, obviously irritated at being interrupted.

“I’m on my period. It’s the first day.”

“You just had your period last week, didn’t you?”

Manjari gulped down the rising bile.

“Take off your panties.”

“What?” she could not believe him.

“Take off your fucking panties! Lying bitch!”

“I am not lying to you”, she said nervously, tears peeping from her eyes. “I’m on my period, I swear. Aah unh!” He was twisting her arm.

“So were you lying then? You think I am a fool, huh? I don’t understand that you’re trying to avoid me? Take off your panties and we’ll see whether you’re lying or not. Take them off, will you?” he raised his hand to strike her.

She was crying by now. She turned her head away and took them off. When he saw that she was telling the truth, he got even angrier. He was aroused, and his wife was bleeding. So, he slapped her hard across the face. Manjari did not scream.

“You think you can get away, you whore! Keep in mind that you’re my wife and obliged to please me. Trying to dupe me with lies, is it?” he grabbed her face and squeezed her cheekbones in his strong hand.

“I’m sorry…I’m really sorry. I won’t ever do it again.”

“Oh, that you won’t. And I’m going to make sure of that.” He released her face and said, “Turn over.”

Manjari could see the very devil in his visage. “W…why?” she murmured.

Without providing an answer, he grabbed her and flipped her over. She knew what was going to happen, but even then she tried to fight him a little. When it didn’t work, she pleaded her husband for mercy, “Please, don’t; for god’s sake. I swear I’ll never lie to you. Listen to me. I’m sorry. Shil...ach!” She wept helplessly.

Her cries were paused for a second, when she let out a short yelp of pain, as he took her from behind. Then, she could plead no more. She clutched the sheet in her fist, trying to writhe out all her pain into it. Her teeth bit into her lips, until she could taste blood. Stuffing her face into the pillow, she drenched it with her quiet sobs.

The phone rang, waking Manjari up from her afternoon siesta. She was still rattled with the phantoms of her past, when she realised it was all a dream. It was at the last ring that she picked the phone up.

“Hello?” her voice was still shaky.

“Hello, Ma. The jamming session dissolved early; I’m going to be home in an hour. I called to ask you to rustle something up for me. Anything, really. I’m famished…” Onir spoke from the other side of the line.

“Oh! Achha, I’ll make something. Ride safely, don’t rush.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, see you.”

“See you, baba.”

She kept the receiver down, and looked at the wall-clock. It was almost two in the afternoon. She felt shaken up. There was only one thing that could ease her. She went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. And as she scrubbed herself vigorously with the loofah, she could feel it scrape out the memories from her body, mind and soul.

_____________________________________________________________________

“…hundreds of people have taken to the streets to protest against the incident, a local correspondent reports. In other news…” the television set blurted. Shiladitya was reclining on the pillows, his eyes glued to the screen. The boys were in their room, not to be disturbed, now that dinner was over. Manjari brushed her hair, untangling the ends patiently, and wove it into a loose plait.

The TV was abruptly shut off. Shiladitya let out a deep sigh and shook his head in disappointment. Manjari turned to look at him. “Do you see the condition of the country? Half the policemen are lazy and the other half stuffed with bribes. Sitting around like a bunch of nautch girls while…tch it is shameful to even think of it!” he blabbered on. She switched off the tubelight and got into bed. He was still ranting, “They should be released to the public, and be battered to hell...”

“Who?” she asked suddenly.

“Why? The rapists, all of them!” he exclaimed.

“ALL of them?”

Shiladitya pursed his lips, taken aback by the unexpected question while Manjari turned over and closed her eyes.

_____________________________________________________________________

Tides of Time (unfinished)

                                                  ~ 1 ~

The present day…

It was 2 a.m. and Mohan woke up to the sound of 'dhinka chika' blaring in his ears. "What in hell..." he exclaimed quite apparently pissed off at being startled from his utopian dreams by this untimed phone call. He snaked his hand out of his blanket and without even looking at the screen, disconnected it. He covered his head quite snugly under an extra pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. "Dhinka chika re e e e"...the cell phone started ringing again.

"Son of a gun!" he yelled. Who was calling him at this ungodly hour? "It better not be the bloody customer care", he said aloud as he straightened the phone to see who the caller was. Rohini, her name flashed on the screen. Mohan's irritation gave way to anxiousness. He picked it up at the last ring.

"Hello, Rohini?"  

No reply.

"What's the matter? Is everything all right? Hello?"                      

Silence.

"Rohi...uh!"                      

His words were abruptly greeted by the dial tone.

Mohan twitched his eyebrows in confusion. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, half expecting something. After bargaining about whether to call her back or not, he decided against it and finally put his mobile on the bedside table. Putting his hands over his head (like he always did when he was thinking hard about something), he stared into the dark ceiling.

"And there goes my sleep", he thought aloud. 

Why was she calling him so late at night? And why then, did she not say anything? Maybe something was troubling her, and she wanted to get it off her mind. Maybe she needed help. Maybe she was feeling lonely. Maybe she wanted to talk to him. As soon as he thought of this, his conscience chided him for being so foolish. Why would she want to share her personal thoughts with him, of all people? That too at two 'o' clock in the dead of the night? No, maybe it was one of those calls that got connected by mistake. Like when unknowingly the caller applies pressure on the buttons of the mobile; that mostly results in random numbers getting typed on the screen, or blank messages and sometimes even unintended calls. Yes, that's what it was. He tried to sketch out the possible scenario. She must have been sleeping with the phone on her bed, and had rolled over on it; when the buttons, aided by the SIM card, deviously hatched a plot to connect a call to him and deprive him of his precious slumber. That brought him to the image of her sleeping. Was she even sleeping or...? I mean, it was not as if she had the bed all to herself.

Mohan pulled himself back from such melancholy assumptions. They only gave him heartburn. But, if the call was mistakenly connected, then why did it get disconnected? Maybe she was calling him. Was she? Mohan steeled himself again. He would not let his heart fall prey to worthless hope. He knew the perfect explanation. Yes, it was because she realised that she had called him by mistake, and so as not to disturb him further, she’d silently cut the call. Was it Mohan's sleep or something else that she didn't want to interrupt? "Stop it, Mohan", he said to himself. He forced his eyes shut. But they were strained for some reason and the harder that he tried to fall asleep, the more they hurt. He knew there was no going back to sleep again.

        

                                                  ~ 2 ~

About a week ago…

The day was sultry and suffocating, as was expected in the month of May in Kolkata. Not that it could be used as an excuse to skip work. Mohan had picked up his assignment from his employer’s office, and now rode on his second hand khatara bike in the heat and humidity through the streets of the Gariahat-Rashbehari connector to his destination for the day. Lakeview was a posh residential area nestled beside lush green parks and the lake after which it was named. He was vaguely pleased, as it meant a change for the better from the squalid locality he had to visit the previous day.

Mohan was a sales representative and maintenance agent, for a company that dealt in assorted kitchen appliances. And he did his job well. Apart from maintenance and repair, which he had got quite skilled at- thanks to the numerous opportunities for practice-he also had the traits that convinced people very easily. He spoke with confidence, no doubt, but there was an honesty and innocence in his eyes that worked together to influence his customers. He was the guy with that do-no-harm kind of personality. People trusted him. He was 28 years old, a contented bachelor, and lived alone in a small but cozy rented room in one of the cheaper suburbs of the city. He basically had no family left, none worthy of the term anyway, since his mother passed away about two years ago. He had left his home soon after, for the city where one of his acquaintances had got him the job. He could afford his basic necessities, gather savings and even spend some money on recreation- the TV, a touchscreen phone and his bike. His salary was enough to sustain him, and since he intended not to extend the number of mouths to be fed, anytime in the near future, he was quite satisfied. Not blissfully happy, no, but satisfied. In the absence of any kind of responsibility to anyone else, he lived in the moment; figuring things out as they came his way. No planning, no procrastinations, no preconceptions.

At first he attended to the maintenance appointments he had in two different apartments; one for a microwave oven and the other for a gas cooking hob. He basically had to clean out colonies of tiny cockroaches from the former and replace a faulty knob of the latter. These alone took him more than three hours to complete and by the time he had finished having lunch in a dhaba-that surprisingly turned out to be more expensive than he’d anticipated (sabzi-roti for 7 bucks apiece)-it was already two p.m. in the afternoon. It was now time for door-to-door salesmanship, cold smiling refusals, the occasional buyer, getting doors shut in his face, the works. It was all very usual and expected; just the opposite of what was going to happen to him next.

He went from door to door and from floor to floor of the apartment building adjacent to the Kali temple. Since it was a hot summer afternoon, most people were enjoying their siestas, and naturally were annoyed by him. But patience was a virtue that was essential to his trade. In spite of the conditions, Mohan had succeeded in getting three prospective customers signed up for one of the ‘special offers’ sponsored by his company. He rang the bell of the door next in line and waited for an answer. He was feeling subtly happy, so he drummed his fingers on the frame of the large mahogany door, to the tune of a soppy Bollywood song.

“Who is it?” called a female voice from inside.

“I’m from Gemini kitchen appliances, Ma’am. My company is offering a special…”

“No, we don’t need anything.”

“Please, Ma’am. It will only take a minute; if you’d just have a look at the brochure.”

 It was followed by a momentary silence and then the voice exclaimed, “Mohan, is that you?”

Mohan was cut short by the opening of the door. And then he saw her standing there right in front of his eyes. He could not believe it; he’d never thought he’d meet her again. She was wearing a light blue saree and her hair was tied in a loose bun, the front parted with a line of sindoor in between. She had a faint smile on her lips, but somehow seemed fragile to him. Was it the bass in her voice or the dark circles under her eyes? He couldn’t decide. She looked beautiful, nevertheless. But then, she’d always looked beautiful through Mohan’s eyes; even when she was a mess. Her figure bore the slight buxomness that a few years of marriage brings with it. He would have kept staring at her like that, but in an effort not to seem rude, he regained his composure.

“Um, Rohini…” he said.

“What a pleasant surprise! I thought it sounded like you…what are you doing in Kolkata?”

“Work. What else?” he said pertly.

“No, uh I didn’t know...”

“Well, whatever. Do you have a kitchen chimney?” he broke the uneasiness. He was on his job, and he was going to make this unexpected meeting as formal as he could. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his bag, and took out a pamphlet and handed it to her. “There you go. It’s the new Electra-X kitchen chimney, 10 litres, self-automated cleaning, just at Rs.25, 000. But if you sign up today, our company is offering a special discount of 10% and assured gifts”, he blurted out monotonously.

Rohini glanced at the brochure and then said to him, “Would you like to come in?”

“No, I am all right outside.”

“I insist. It’s been a long time. I’d like it. You can tell me about the offer inside. Please.”

The apartment was a lavish one and the drawing room boasted of a dark leather sofa set, a green marble centre table and a home theatre. While brocade curtains concealed a wide window, a Greek bust stood in the corner and a couple of portraits adorned the wall facing them. The air conditioner was turned on full force and it gave him comfort from the prickling heat outside. He sat down on a sofa chair and was joined by her on the one adjacent to his. He glanced from here to there-observing the features of the room, while she stared at her hands before finally breaking the ice, “How is Ira mashi?”

Mohan looked up at her for a second and then lowered his gaze. “She is, um…no more”, he took in a sharp breath and continued, “Cervical cancer. It was discovered late. We tried chemo, but…” he shook his head and pursed his lips. Rohini was visibly shocked, “B…but she was so young…I can’t...I mean w…when?” she managed to ask.

“Two years ago in August.”

There was a painful silence in the room. Mohan stared at the ground while Rohini stared at him in disbelief. Before it became too much, he spoke up. “Can I have some water, please?”

She was glad of the interruption and recollected herself. “Tch, I’m so sorry. How rude of me! Wait a minute, I’ll get you something.”

“No, please. I just had lunch. I’m thirsty, that’s all.”

She ignored him and went into the kitchen behind the drawing room. Five minutes later, she returned with a glass of aampanna and a bowl of chilled watermelon cubes. Mohan had his elbow propped on his leg, and was massaging between his eyebrows. “Do you have a headache?” Rohini asked with sincere concern.

He lifted his head, “No, I’m just tired. Actually I was all sweaty when I came in, and the A.C. may have got to me. I’m not really used to it.”

“Oh, should I turn it off? Or would it be okay with you if I raised the temperature?”

“Sounds good. But, why did you go to such trouble?” he exclaimed looking at the refreshments she’d got for him, “I’m really on a full stomach.” She turned the A.C. down and said, “Oh it’s just some fruit. It’s the first time you came to our home. You didn’t think that I’d let you leave without having something. And anyway, it’s not like I had to cook.”

He did not argue. She was behaving more as if he was a visitor rather than a salesman. It should have made him feel good, but he didn’t understand why it annoyed him so much. He could almost have laughed satirically at the situation if she wasn’t sitting there in front of him. Instead, he obediently began to drink the sherbet placed before him.

“So, are all salesmen bestowed with such hospitality in this household?” he said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Not really”, she said absent-mindedly. He resumed eating, and she observed him intently.

She tried to make small talk, “So you live here now; in Kolkata?”

He popped a piece of watermelon in his mouth and said, “Yeah, near Tollygunge. I figured that there was nothing left for me back in Chandannagar.” He did not notice her flinch at this statement. “I guess it was time for a fresh start, you know. I like it here. Yeaaah, anyway, enough about me; what are you doing in Kolkata? Last time I heard, you were living in Siliguri.”

“Vikram got transferred to Kolkata in November. We’ve been here since.”

Mohan nodded. He didn’t ask her any more questions. The mere mention of her husband’s name had made him uneasy. Moreover, he didn’t want to seem too prying.

Rohini sensed his discomfort and tried to make him feel at ease with a general comment, “You’ve changed quite a lot since the last time I saw you…you’ve grown stubble now. It suits you.”

He flashed a genuine smile and teased her, “Yeah, well; you’ve gained weight.” pointing to what he thought was a trace of a pot-belly.

“Oh that. Um, actually I’m pregnant.” She said matter-of-factly.

He would have almost spit out his food from shock, but saved himself from humiliation in the nick of time. “Ah, well…um Congratulations! I guess…” he managed with a cough followed by a fake smile.

“Thank you. It’s been about five months…” she said, almost to herself rather than him.

He nodded in response and again a noisy silence ensued between them.

“Um, I’m getting late. You should take a look at the brochure now”, he said finally, keeping the glass on the table.

“Yeah, sure”, she extended her left hand to him. Mohan was about to give her the pamphlet, when he noticed a small dark bruise on her wrist. It was concealed until then under her aanchal but now the thin gold bangles had been displaced revealing the wound. When she caught him staring at it, she nervously drew her hand back and smiled, “Oh its nothing.” “It’s just a small burn from the coffee maker. I was silly enough to try to hold it while it was still hot”, she added almost as an afterthought. Clarifying herself thus to Mohan, who hadn’t asked for an explanation, she took the brochure from his hands and started flipping through its pages.

He praised all the features of the kitchen chimney in question with a fervour that only salesmen possessed. He was in the middle of explaining to her the price and the discount being offered, when the door of the next room opened and a little girl came running towards Rohini. She was a toddler, three to four years old, with big eyes on a plump but cute face. He couldn’t help but smile. On seeing Mohan she stopped in her steps, and then warily proceeded forward to her mother. “Ma, why did you leave me alone in the bedroom?” she said and climbed onto her lap.

“She’s afraid of sleeping alone”, Rohini explained to him. Then she caressed her daughter’s hair and said, “See who’s here. Say ‘hi’ to uncle, Moni.”

“Hi”, the little girl obeyed, apprehensive of the stranger.

“Hello, Moni! What a pretty pet name you have!” Mohan said shaking her hand. “What is your bhalonaam?”

“My name is Mohini Banerjee. What is your name?” she replied promptly with tutored confidence, apparently having lost all her former wariness.

He laughed a little at this and answered with a similar accent, “My name is Mohan Sengupta, Ma’am.”

She curved her brow in thought and remarked, “Our names are similar; Mohini and Mohan.”

“Yes, surprisingly, they are”, he realised. He looked up to Rohini and saw that her countenance had turned serious. “I should get going.”

She nodded, “I’m sorry. I can’t confirm and sign up for the offer without consulting with my husband. I’m keeping the brochure, if that’s not a problem. Give me your card and I’ll get back to you.”

“A salesman with a card?” Mohan said gravely. “Oh…” she was clearly embarrassed. “I’ll write my number down for you”, he offered with a smile, and scribbled his phone number on the pamphlet.

“Bye-bye, Moni.”

“Bye-bye”, the little girl repeated.

“It was nice meeting you”, he confessed to Rohini.

“Same here. Bye.”

“Bye.” Mohan left and descended the stairwell outside the apartment. She waited for him to disappear as he turned on the landing, before closing the large mahogany door.

                                                 ~3~

10 years ago…

“Ira mashi O Ira mashi, open the door! Ma has sent some fish roe fritters for you”, 17 year old Rohini shouted outside her neighbours’ house.

“Where, let me see?” Mohan opened the door on her face and without a warning, snatched up one of the fritters from the bowl in her hand.

“What? UGH!”

“Mmm, they’re good” he raised his eyebrows at her. He then grabbed the bowl and went back in; leaving her at the porch without even as much as an invitation to come inside.

“MOHAN!” she stomped her foot and then ran after him.

“What’s the matter with you two again?” Mohan’s mother said in disapproval, although she was used to the cock-and-bull story that the teenagers lived.

“See for yourself what your darling son is up to! I brought the fritters for you and he vanished with the entire lot instead.”

“Uff, this boy doesn’t give me a moment’s rest. Ei Mo…”

“There you go Ma. I was just doing a quality test. These fritters are fit for consumption”, he piped in, handing his mother the bowl, which showed a much reduced number of fritters. Rohini gave him a death stare. “What?” he looked at her with irreverence. Then he gave a little push to her head before heading off upstairs to his room. “Follow me.”

“Why?” she asked, but got no reply. She looked first at Ira mashi, then at the stairs; and climbed them up to his room.

“Why did you ask me to follow you?”

Mohan was searching for something under his bed. He looked up and said, “I’ve got something to show you. Close the door.”

“What is it? Why do I have the close the door? What are you doing under the bed?”

“Why the hell do you have so many questions? Just shut up for a minute and close the door.”

“First tell me what it is.”

Mohan looked up again, this time his teeth clenched. Rohini gave up.

“Okay Okay! I’ll close it. But I don’t like the direction this is going in.”

“Here it is.” He stood up with a book in his hand.

“A book? You kept a book under your bed? I thought it was something dangerous.”

“It is. Come and see”, he sat on the bed and patted the place next to him.

Rohini sat down next to him to observe this supposedly ‘dangerous’ book.

“The Kama…THE KAMASUTRA!”

“Shh”, he placed a finger on her lips “Don’t shout, you silly pig!”

“The Kamasutra? Where’d you get this thing?” she whispered.

“From someone”, Mohan said with feigned authority.

She shoved him in the guts with her elbow, “Who? Tell me or I’ll tell Ira mashi that you read obscene literature.”

“What in god’s name is your problem, Rohini?”

“Who?”

“A friend of a friend of a friend.” She was clearly not satisfied with this answer.

“Okay! I got it from Kingshuk’s neighbour’s cousin. We met him at the Strand a week ago. He lent it to me; for two days only. I’ve got to return it tomorrow. So, I wanted to show it to you. And now I think that was a pretty bad decision.”

“Whatever. Have you read it yet?”

He nodded, “Last night.”

“And?”

“Well, read it yourself.”

He opened the book for her. She gasped at almost every single heading or illustration. The turning of the pages was punctuated by a “What in hell…”, “Ew!” or “Oh my god!” from her.

“Hey! Stop doing that.”

“What? I can’t help but be surprised. I am not that…you know…as you are.”

“Just be normal. You’ve got like a million expressions going through your face within a second right now.”

“I can’t be normal when I am looking at THIS sitting next to a guy.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be stupid, Mohan. You know what.”

“No I don’t. You’re being silly.”

“Oh! Just move away for a while and let me read this by myself.” She pushed him away.

He pushed her back. “Ugh!” she cried and pushed him harder. But he did not budge.

And their game began. Rohini struggling to push him off of her, and Mohan sitting there stuck to her side like a thorn refusing to move. Their game continued for a couple of minutes before his mother banged on the door, “What are you two up to?”

Mohan regained his wits and opened the door, “Oh nothing she was just helping me with one of the passages in the English book.”

Rohini smiled foolishly and waved the book at her, taking care to keep the title out of vision.

Ira mashi looked suspiciously at them for a moment and said, “Okay. Don’t fight. And keep the door open.” Then she left.

“Phew!” Mohan said, wiping off imaginary beads of sweat from his forehead.

“What must she have thought we were doing?” Rohini was tensed.

“You worry too much, Rohini. Now give the book back.” She did not protest and he hid it under the bed.

She was looking out the window and thinking of something. “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

“Hm? Nothing”, she shook her head. Mohan lounged upon the bed, his head resting on his palm, and his eyes fixed on her. Rohini fiddled with the bed-sheet. “Arre tell me na! What are you thinking?” he persisted.

“I’m getting late. Bye”, she got up and started towards the door. He pulled her back by her arm, “What happened?”

“I’ve got to go, Mohan. Ma will be worrying.” She went out and down the stairs.

“No she won’t”, he called back but she was already gone. Making an angry face, he lay down on the bed. He looked out the window from where he could see Rohini’s house. He held the shutter and banged it close. After a few seconds, he opened it. He closed it again. And then he kept repeating this, until his mother finally dragged him down for his bath.

                                                                                         

Introduced to Writing Prompts

I have always been interested in creative writing since my English tutor implanted the bug in me in 8th grade. Weaving stories in my mind was something I did since toddler years, but my stories are often too long to pen down. I get lazy after writing a couple of scenes and it remains untouched, until maybe a month later when I discover it in my Laptop documents folder, and jot down another scene. So, while my original script plays in the back of my mind, almost all the time, I don't give words to it very often.

So, anyway my brief stint with poetry was met with what I call a 'motamuti' response. I did bag the first prize in poetry writing in school twice, but to me the quality of my poems were, to be honest, not up to the standard. But I've always liked my prose writing capabilities.
Recently, I have been trying to hone my skills further in this department, since I aspire to become a part time contributor in a magazine, paper or a blog that reaches a lot of people. And although I may like my style, I still need to improve on it. hence, I have been on the hunt ever since to look for ideas which I could use to write as a hobby.
And I have found a handful of helpful websites that offer what are called 'writing prompts' to encourage budding writers. A writing prompt is just what it means. It could be a starting sentence, a group of words you'd have to incorporate into your writing, a single word as the inspiration, a specific plot with a specific character or even something as simple as an idea. I am finding it quite helpful.
My favorites from the list are:-
1. Oneword- Offers one word everyday, and 60 seconds to write about it. Helps to learn spontaneity.
2.Fifteen Minutes of Fiction- Offers a grab bag section where you can choose any number of words that are randomly generated, and must then be used to write something. Helps to learn adaptability.
3.Creative Writing Prompts- Has over 300 prompts of various kinds. Helps to learn versatility.

Here are two examples of my writing in response to prompts.

1. A grab bag note written using the words: Drive, dizziness and bulletproof.

Bristol sped her car on the highway, in the dark rainy night. It wasn't that late but since she lived in a town of only 2000 people, the road was almost deserted. She stared straight out into the darkness, looking out into the oblivion. She kept staring like that, who knows for how long, when the sudden horn of an approaching truck startled her. She rearranged herself on the driver's seat. She reached into the a small pocket of her canvas bag kept on the adjacent seat, and pulled out a packet of smokes (a week old), empty for the exception of one cigarette. "To heck with cleansing", Bristol thought aloud. She also pulled out a lighter and lit the joint, and let out a puff of smoke...shortly followed by a sigh. She couldn't stand the noise the car made on the slippery highway. The drone of the engine, was already getting on her nerves. The dizziness would engulf her completely unless she could get a stressbuster.Reluctantly, Bristol turned on the radio. "I love the way you lie" was playing on the station. Talk about poetic justice, this shit is musical justice... she thought. Anyway, it would make the drive more tolerable.Bristol had been up at Coby's that evening. It was not her birthday, or his or their anniversary either. She'd just got an idea out of the blue to go and surprise him at his apartment! Bristol looked after her family business in the small town, while Coby lived in the city where he worked as a contemporary artist. That's what made her fall for him. Silly me, she thought. "Fuck the silly me!"So when she'd rang his bell, she'd hoped for him to come all dreary-eyed and open the door, then look at her with his big eyes, not once showing shock or disbelief, and then let the show end when his lips gave into a big smile that said, "you'd never learn!"Yes, She'd never learn. As it would turn out, she rang the bell and waited for a good 3 minutes before a lanky girl (what the heck, she'd just be twenty) in a camisole and panties opened the door, waited for a second and said, "Sucks ass. I thought 'twas the pizza guy." The string of events that followed are best not mentioned, but it is sufficient to know that things escalated pretty quickly and she was on the highway in half an hour. Bristol had almost reached the corner of the avenue that was just two blocks away from her home. The radio was still on. She listened to Taylor Swift singing, "you might think I'm bulletproof, but I'm not."

2. Describe what you feel using your sense of smell.

It reeks of sweat. The acrid stinging odour is filling my senses. It is sometimes sweet, sometimes pungent and sometimes earthy. I can smell something smoky. Choking and burnt like hot air coming out of a vent. There is also the stink of open drains- acidic, putrefied and organic. But then there is the occasional fragrance of yellow flowers in bloom…rejuvenating and addictive. And then, somewhere in the corner there is a savory aroma that reminds me of home.

Well, that's about it. I guess. See you next time.

-Aamen.

Be careful what you wish for, 'coz you just might get it all...

10 year old Pinky had a dream.

To live in a bungalow, well-furnished and with many rooms designated for special purposes. Not in a rotting hole of a room with other filthy children.

To sleep in a luxurious bed with satin sheets and fluffy pillows. Not on the torn blankets spread over the cold,hard floor.

To dine at a table laden with numerous delicacies prepared by an adept chef. Not to gulp down the scant and bland dal-roti they got 2 times a day.

To travel in an air-conditioned car with a driver in a uniform. Not to walk everywhere in the dust, dirt and heat of the city.

To wear fashionable clothes and expensive jewelery bought for her. Not to don the same second-hand faded frocks that had been mended a 100 times.

And last but not the least, she dreamt of a man who would dote on her and take care of all her wishes. Not to be insulted and shunned in the daylight, like her mother was, by her male customers.  Pinky grew up to be a pretty woman, svelte and fair, unlike her companions. Bitchy aunties said that she must have taken after her father (her mother was not what you would call good to look at); but she gave a damn. She had never known or rather wanted to know who he was. Not that she could if she wished. Anyway. she caught the attention of rich men with a liking for pretty young virgins.

At the age of 20, Pinky ended up at the house of Brij Tiwari, a 55 year old business tycoon who had recently lost his wife to cancer. His only son had abandoned him to settle in the USA. Pinky got her big room in the big bungalow. She never went out except in the Mercedes, Tiwari bought for her. He showered her with solitaire diamond rings, designer attire, pearl necklaces and patent leather accessories, even before she could open her lips to ask for them. She dined on Beluga caviar and wined on Chardonnay. Tiwari never let an hour pass without talking to her, or let a night pass without making love to her. He was obsessed with her youth and beauty and was as loving as a man could be. Pinky spent her entire day getting spoilt in spas, dressing up for parties, and getting tended to by butlers. Her nights were spent beside Tiwari on the huge mahogany bed with satin sheets and fluffy pillows...

But, Pinky couldn't decide if it was a dream come true or...a nightmare come true.

#This is what happens when there's a nationwide blackout, your roommate is eternally on the phone and you have nothing to do but to pen down your musings in your diary by the candlelight#

-Aamen.

Empty Spaces Beside Me...

Scene 1. Three years ago. Chemistry tuition. Little spaces reserved for everyone, not by rules but by tradition. Mostly fixed, but permutations and combinations were allowed. I would reach early, and spend the following few minutes wishing that maybe just that one day you would sit beside me. You would enter that whitewashed room, half filled with noisy boys (girls usually arrived later) pondering over aromatic and aliphatic compounds. I would never look up at you, I didn't want to send any signals. After all, that was a guy's job. You would stare at the empty space beside me, lingering for a moment and then occupy a different seat beside your friends. And I would stare at my empty notebook, every vein in my body throbbing with the emptiness next to me.

  Scene 2. Today. The last period is over. We emerge out of the gates as a throng of crazy teens, overflowing with laughter,no one knows for what reason. We walk towards the blue motor vans, and I run up front and announce, "I am gonna sit on the front." I occupy my aforementioned space, and hold my breath to watch what you do. You approach the seat next to me, and my heartbeat goes a million beats per minute. But you are interrupted by two of our classmates who push you aside. I turn my head away and spend the rest of the van ride, feeling so distant from you, although you are just two seats away.

-Aamen.

Aziza's Diary: Page 236

It was five-thirty in the evening, and dusk was descending. Brushing her fingers through her hair, Aziza chanced to look upon her reflection in the old mirror hanging on the peeling wall. Her eyes were swollen, she had slept for too long. There was still some light outside, and to keep the mosquitoes out, she went to shut the windows. That was when she saw them.

On the barren lawn, a man in his early thirties was playing with a toddler. He was well built and tall, but with a childlike countenance that contradicted his looks. He would throw the ball to the little boy who caught it and served back. And each time the man missed, he cackled out in innocent laughter. Looking at the toddler Aziza thought, “Ayaan does look a lot like him”. She gazed at them, in the shade of a pane, hungrily absorbing all that was happening between the child and his father. Unconsciously, her mind began flitting through memories, some black, some white, some grey and some even rainbowy! The game proceeded, with intentional misses on one side, complemented by a haughty applause on the other.

She kept watching their nuances, with unwavering interest.

She didn’t know why she somehow felt safe observing them from a distance. Close was not a place she wanted to go, it was out of her comfort zone. As the game came to a conclusion, Ayaan shouted out in mirth, ‘Yay! I won, I won…’, and his father lifted him up in his arms and planted a kiss on his forehead. Just then, Aziza’s eyes met his. Both of them paused for a fleeting moment…and then, in a flurry of movements, she banged the window close and returned to her solitude.

The room was dark now, except for the diminishing rays infiltrating into it. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the shadows around her, trying to extract some meaning out of them. Then, she remembered the dirty dishes in the sink. With nothing better to do, she decided to devote herself to work, in order to keep away the thoughts that were gnawing at her memory. She began humming an old tune, to ensure that she could not hear them. Her hands toiled, but her conscience was someplace else.

There was a rap on the door…

‘Its me’, Arunoday said. Aziza opened the door and let him in.

‘What happened to the lights?’

‘Powercut. It won’t be back for at least an hour. Where’s Ayaan?’

‘He went to play with the boy who lives next door. What’s his name…Bunty?’

Without a reply, she returned to the sooty kitchen of the one-bedroom rented shack she called home. He closed the door behind him and followed her in. There was no intimacy traceable in the conversation they shared. An imaginary firewall existed between them, spurred on by the wounds that had accumulated with time.

He leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and watched her silently.

‘Do you need any help?’

She did not answer. The bangles in her hands tinkled against each other as she scrubbed the utensils clean. She could feel his eyes scan her, and this made her feel uneasy. So, she pretended to be indifferent to it. By then, Arunoday was used to the cold shoulder she was giving him.

After what seemed to be an eternity of noisy silence, Aziza tried to break the ice.

‘When are you going back?’

“What? Oh...Um, as soon as I get you two to come with me.’

This got under her skin. Leaving the dishes undone, she clenched her fists to control her temper, bit her lips and turned towards him.

‘Arun, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, for a while.’

He saw determination in her eyes, which were otherwise quite gullible. He straightened himself and looked right into them, making her flinch. She lowered her gaze and turned to the side, then taking in a breath, spoke to the wall.

‘I think we should get a divorce.’

It knocked the air right out of him, leaving him tongue tied. She had expected him to say something, but not getting any response, she faced him with hesitant eyes and said, ‘Well…’ She was interrupted.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘What? No…’

‘Does this seem funny to you Aziza? ‘Coz this sure as hell doesn’t seem funny to me!’

She was getting irritated, ‘Do I look like I am laughing?’

They were answering each other with questions. ‘Why don’t you ever take me seriously, Arun?’

He broke out into an untimed laughter, which transformed into a painful grin. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’

She didn’t. Instead, she just glanced at him with a vacant expression on her face.

‘Oh God. No! Come on…Don’t do this to me, Please.’

‘For God’s sake, Arun. I don’t want this any longer. This…this lying to ourselves that everything is all right, when we know it sure as hell isn’t! I don’t want to live in an illusion anymore.’

‘What illusion? Look, I know you can’t stand me right now. But, at least give me the chance to make it up to you. To my son. I’m asking for one opportunity. Is it too much? I curse myself every second for being such an arsehole that I could leave you. You know that, Aziza, you know that!’

She had listened to him patiently till now. She just let out a sigh, and dodged him out of her way into the bedroom. He turned around.

‘What? Say something, Aziza!’

‘You really want to listen? Okay…I’m sick, Arun! Sick and tired of your excuses and apologies. I’m done with them.’

She shoved him away, but he grasped her hand in a tight fist.

‘LEAVE MY HAND’, she spelled it out slowly. Instead, he just gripped it tighter.

She was way beyond manners now! She jerked her hand, but all that did was to cause her an extra iota of pain.

‘Stop it, you’re hurting me’, she spat out her words at him.

He released her hand, and put a finger on her lips, ‘Shh…Calm down please. I’m sorry.’

She could feel his eyes get teary, as well as hers, and this disgusted her like hell.

‘Listen to me, Aziza. I love you.’

‘But I don’t.’

He paused for a few seconds and then said, ‘I’m begging you. Don’t do this to me. I can’t live without you anymore.’

All he got was a spiteful smirk.

Aziza thought that he sounded like a cliché hero in a Bollywood movie. Although somewhere, deep down, she wanted to believe him, her mental faculties got the better of her heart.

‘Who are you kidding, Arun?’, she shook her head in disapproval, ‘Where were you when I needed you? Rotting here all alone, with a child to take care of and no one to earn. Do you have any idea of what a single mother has to go through? It is a living hell. Three years, Arun. Three years I waited for you to return. But, you didn’t. You didn’t even bother to see whether I was dead or alive? If you think you can turn up one fine day, say sorry, and expect everything to turn back to normal, then you are wrong. You have proved that you can stay without me. And guess what? So can I. I’ve made a life for myself here, with Ayaan. I don’t need you like I needed you before.’ She was panting furiously.

Arun was helpless now. He tried to use force where persuasion didn’t work.

He cornered her and said, ‘ There’s no way I’m going to let this happen. I’m not losing you again.’

‘Just get los…’ she was stopped midsentence by his lips suddenly breaking down on hers. He grabbed her waist and pulled her towards him. She was taken aback, and immediately tried to break out of his embrace. His was a familiar but forgotten touch, and her heart trembled when she felt it. She tried to speak, but his lips cut her off. Although she was short of breath, she tried to fight him off. But in vain. He was much stronger. He pinned her shoulders to the wall with his weight, with one arm around her neck, his fingers woven into her hair. She tried to push him away with her hands, but she felt like she was caught in a cage. She could feel him in her mouth...his smell, his taste, his movements. It made her feel weird…angry, ecstatic, sad and afraid all rolled into one. She started crying like a child.

Arunoday gently released her, and wondered what it was. Till now, he was overcome with surging passion, but her tears brought him to his senses. He looked caringly at her face, which had turned a shade of red. She had her eyes facing the floor and big drops streamed down her face. Her lips were pursed and she was shaking all over. Tears welled up in his eyes too, and he put a hand on her cheek to make her feel better. She leaned forward and clutched his shirt in her fists. He touched her lips with his him, making them shiver a little. They looked into each other’s eyes. This time, he gave her a gentle kiss and retreated.

But, she kissed him back. Like young teenagers, they stood there kissing, her hands enveloped around his neck and his hands dug into her saree at the back. They were rediscovering each other after a long time; and it felt like rain on parched earth after an eternal drought.

He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. There the laid, their fingers entwined in each other’s, kissing out all their heartburn. When they were finally tired of it, she buried her face in the hollow of his chest, and breathed him in. He caressed her messed up hair. Then she turned over and closed her eyes, while he hugged her tight and hid his face in the back of her neck. They didn’t know how long they had stayed like that, sharing an intimacy they owed each other since a long time.

Their trance broke with a knock on the door…

‘Ma…’

‘Coming’. Aziza got up from the bed hastily, fixed the drape of her crumpled saree, tied her hair in a loose bun and opened the door. Arun was also on his feet when Ayaan came into the room.

‘What took you so long?’

‘Bunty has got this new red toy helicopter…and you know it flies too? I only have one toy car…Please Ma, buy me one of them. Bunty only lets me see his toys, he never lets me play with them. Please…’, Ayaan pleaded with his mother.

She chided him, ‘You shouldn’t always be jealous of your friend’s toys. I will get you one when its time. For now, the car is enough for you…you’ve wasted a lot of time today, its time for your homework.’

The little boy started feigning how immensely hurt he was with his mother’s reply and started sulking.

Feeling bad for him, Arun said, ‘Oh, Aziza! You always scold the poor boy. Come here, Papa will get you something even better than a flying helicopter. Do you know what it is?’

‘What?’…Ayaan bulged his eyes out in suspense.

‘It is a flying aeroplane, kiddo! We will go to a shop I know first thing tomorrow, and get you an aeroplane. And then you can show it to Bunty. But let him play with it too. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Now, lets study….all right?’

The toddler nodded his head in silent obedience.

A few minutes later, Arunoday was reciting nursery rhymes with his son. Both of them were so much at ease with each other, that no one would believe that the boy had met his father for the first time just a week earlier.

As Aziza watched them with each other, and the ice in her heart slowly melted away…

‘Arun’, she said.

‘Hm?’

‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now.’

He looked up.

‘When are WE going back?’

Pleasantly surprised, Arunoday smiled back at her…

THE END.

-Aamen.