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“Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.”
- Mark Twain

Assessment........

I think I write good but my sister says I write all crap…cant help…I will keep posting…bravo …keep it up man…that’s the spirit …….!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Living Partner......

There is a man I know. He does not live alone. He does not have too many friends. He dislikes many people loving him; controlling his life. He is awake till the wee hours of the morning, making sure broken pieces stick together, making wholes. When he wakes up, it’s not very late in the morning. He has three pairs of shoes, ten shirts, four formal trousers and five pairs of jeans, which he wears during the week and the weekend, with no particular emphasis on combining them in the right way. The iron at the side of his room lay unused. His flat mate sometimes irons his clothes, not out of pity or sympathy; maybe boredom, or for reasons he cannot understand. He likes his clothes washed, but other activities like ironing and cooking are trivial for him; too damn trivial to merit his attention.

He is not afflicted with the greed of money. He has no time for love; He eats less, and in infrequent intervals. Before he starts for work, he receives atleast two calls from the office; lesser people with more time call him for asking his opinion on important matters. He does it generously and does not expect anything in return. When he reaches office, everyone is looking for him; He is rushed to meetings where people with greater power and lesser knowledge, take decisions based on his analysis of problems; He is not blind to the politics of corporate growth, but he fakes a naive distance. During the evenings, when the meetings are done, answers given and there are few people to bother him, he works; Solitude fuels his mind and he finds as many answers for the questions lying ahead, the next day. He is no genius and he knows that. He is just borrowing time from his youth; to make things happen; that seem important now but will become trivial later.

This man I know, is the devil inside me! The devil who knows no day, no night, no dark, no light, no love, no hate, no man and no god. Lately it possesses me most of the time. I need to get it out of my nervous system. Because I know, all the value it is supposed to create is just an illusion in the greater canvas of life, and that money is just a cheap imitation of time, the more you earn it the poorer you get!

Who am I...............

Nomad most of the time, human abhorrer some of the time, intelligent most of the time, brainless by choice once in a while, romantic once in a while, sexy almost never, practical most of the time, worldly sometime, good looking once upon a time, well dressed once in a while, reading sometime, writing once in a while, escape some of the time, responsible most of the time, sports sometime, I-pod most of the time, lazy most of the time, hardworking sometimes, equality all the time, saving almost never, sin once in a while, whisky sometime, cig most of the time, drugs never, girls once in a while, emotional once in a while, cooking once in a while, male all the time, thin once upon a time, young well getting old all the time, dead once in a while, living when not dead…..

Poets.....

Three Poets died in a mysterious accident…
The student agitation at Jadavpur University before local municipal election…
Then Kolkata is suffering from heat wave...waiting for 1st monsoon of the year…
And Bengali society is celebrating "Jamai Sasti - son in law pampering festival"….

Had it not been for the poets, it would have been a usual week in Kolkata.

Lopamudra entered the bookshop located at the far end towards the right (if you are entering it) at college street, coffee house corner...As she stepped inside...smell of once too familiar environment spanked her with nostalgia, she saw many more people, than she expected. It was a time, when the town school children waited for the bell to ring, lazy government employed executives planned to leave for home, and housewives readied themselves to wind up their gossiping; not many would venture into the streets, at least for another two hours.

She heard whispers of a controversy in a corner; one that had already been hatched and executed. Her tiny ears, though ravaged by daily noise, were good enough to pick up the conversation. Two elderly men discussed how the government had failed to keep the murder of the poets, secret. The poets had sown the seeds of revolt in the minds of the local youth against the government, one said. They were referred to as the ‘Trinity’; all three were in their forties, when they died

As the first signs of darkness began to envelop the skies outside, people started queuing near the pay counter; many had in their hands, their first book on poetry.

O! Death can be so wonderful
It can bestow so much more than you deserve
Condescending life;
Reliving pain forever
Granting everlasting success

Lopamudra did not bother herself any longer with poets. She strolled across the fiction section, looking for nothing in particular. As she flipped through the pages of Da Vinci Code, her thoughts transported her back to yesterday night; and several nights in the past, long and dark. They had made love without the lights on, he did not want to see her face, and she had long ignored his. They were like two strangers sharing a bus seat in discomfort, detached and disenchanted, locked in common touch by the vagaries of time. When he was finished, she arose and sought the lights, only to find that there was no power. Words had escaped her in his presence, long ago. He let out a groan as she sulked beneath the sheets again.

The bookshop maintained the look of a library, which it once was; books were lined up adjacent to one another, with no emphasis on presenting the newer ones to the amateur eye. Through the many racks of books parallel to the place where Lopamudra was standing, rays of evening light found its way only to be scattered against a blank wall; Lopamudra followed the rays and found a man in her careless gaze, who in a split moment blocked the rays from reaching the wall and then again let them free.

For no apparent reason, Lopamudra abandoned the trail of light and let her eyes search the man. He moved around towards his left; Lopamudra’s right and was lost. Lopamudra, who has only slightly taller than the racks in front of her, alighted on her toes to look at him. But he was gone! She felt empty; bereft of the simplest pleasure of her day. She buried herself in the book, desperately trying to read something. In her desperation, she dropped it. A hand picked it up and gave it to her. He was right there.

'Thank You!’
Lopamudra said.

She noticed his hair first -careless and uncombed. He wore an old army cargo and black t-shirt. He wasn't tall but had a round face with strong jaws. She decided that he was handsome; and felt good about it.

The man smiled at her and then picked up a book from the rack. The scrutiny was short. He soon joined the queue near the pay counter.

Lopamudra kept looking at him. He paid for the book and strolled out of the shop. Lopamudra quickly picked up her bag that she had kept down, and rushed out after him. He had a gentle pace and stopped at small shops selling worthless nothings. He bought some betel leaf in one of the shops, beads in another. Lopamudra kept a small distance from him, lest he noticed. She noticed that the man had an easy smile…easy way to carry him…something in him kept him gliding through…he was very much every where but was not there too…the shopkeepers liked him even if he didn't buy…He stayed inside one of the shops for a long time and Lopamudra became anxious.

When he came out, he upped his pace and Lopamudra had to do so, herself. He walked faster and faster. Lopamudra was getting tired .She was almost running to keep pace with her tormentor. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he turned back and in no time, was face to face with Lopamudra.

'Do you like me?’
She didn't know what to say.

'Are you a poet?’
'Sometimes. Yeah! Sometimes' he replied, without much hesitation.

'So, can I buy you some coffee?'

Awkwardly, she brushed her hair and managed a smile. He made her feel like a woman again.

‘No! Sorry. I’m married’

And she walked away in the fading light.

Back home, she found Kaushik…once intellectual student leader…poet… earlier than expected. He smelt of soiled socks and overdose of TV….She changed and walked into the kitchen. It was the first Sunday of the week…children was throwing pillows at each other….She smiled at them, on the way.
She hummed the 'song of innocence' taught by her father, when she was young. He always said the mutton curry was better when she sang while cooking….She sang to her heart's content. When the cooking was done, she divided the curry into three bowls for the children and their father. She always had her dinner later, when everyone else had finished….It was an unwritten rule; and she didn't mind it. The bowl for Kaushik was a much larger one than the others and while she poured the curry into it…she committed the crime….she was always accused of. She put an extra teaspoon of salt into Kaushik's bowl.

When dinner was served, the children took their seats and waited for their father. Kaushik finally switched off the TV and sat in the big chair reserved for him.

He took a sip of the curry, shook his head in disbelief and shouted.
‘Bitch! You always put less salt!’

Lopamudra went back to the kitchen to fetch salt and smiled to herself !!!!!