BANNED UNDER THE BANYAN TREE

                                           AMAZON KINDLE LINK :                           http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0094VD3DC

                               What makes you think that the story of your life (woefully unlived-in up to that time) deserves to be told? Or that people will want to read it?

-          Sasthibrata Chakravarti ( better known as Sasthi Brata)

I now realise hoping was always idealistic, like dark nimbus clouds on scorching summer noons, roaring and puffing but never melting down. I now realise that life was always a routine, like morning ragas at radio stations.

                                                 Invisible faces, unforeseen lives. Our sweat and silence bleeds history. Crying, pleading and hoping to break free from the eternal darkness. Like happy tunes vibrating inside a raped soul. Painting rainbows against the gloomy vastness of a sky. Light and rain. Hopes and pain. For I had hoped and remained alive – all these forty years of my life. With a bed-ridden mother, a disabled son in a pigeonhole called ‘home’ and a bunch of grave looking paperbacks to sell. You look at the vulgar cover, flip a few crusty yellowish pages inscribed with inexpensive ink, and I hear those silent words jingling in your heart ‘filthy and polluting’ .Voluptuous sirens pictured with tales of passionate love underneath. I can imagine how your faces scowl and I know how you call them - cheap erotica, Battala (under the Banyan tree) craps, porno, quick excitement (and fall) ...whatsoever. And then under the blatant sun, you timidly look sideways and silently slip a raunchy one at the darkest corner of your executive bag. Rich people, rich desires. Yes, I am one of those whom you watch every day selling those banned eroticas under the guise of daily newspapers. On honking mornings, scorching noons and crimson evenings. At busy railway stations, along the muddy roadways, near the buzzing bus-stands or under the sacred banyan trees. Pale imaginary (at times real) salacious tales with stirring covers hiddiciously waiting for the next customer. Full of sexual innuendos. Spicy dramas, incest stories, paedophile desires, adolescent crushes and much more. I am full of such desirous stories. Enjoying them in my idle times when dirt and filth dances on that everyday road. Poor people, poor desires. Weaving tales of sinister cravings against the grey backdrop of my brain. Whatever it might be, I can’t stop respecting it. You see, your cheap erotica has been the sole bread earner for my family.

                                                           So what is it all about? You might be thinking. An Autobiography? Not much, I guess. Autobiographies are for rich, as for poor it’s more aptly the saga of sting. Or punctuations of pain. Or better to say, confessions. Confessions of being alive. A necklace woven with beads of pain and perennial hopes crafted on it. Hopes that drive us to live one more day.

                             But it’s not all too dark, you see. At times, a million butterflies flutter their vibrant wings on my barren horizon. Like when watching Shiuli, my neighbour Mukul Dutta’s wife bathing at the municipal hand pump, her uncovered breast pressed against the gushing water, her deep brown nipples defiantly protuberant. I remember how sensitive they were, sending a message down there with a flick of a thumb and forefinger. Still now when the day turns dark and cloud claps and growls above, I remember the lost warmth of being inside her. Memories often are cradle of fantasies. Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied. But the point of excursion is that you come back home again. Or watching the buxom receptionist of Tara Enterprise & Sons walking down with creamy legs and the most clefted pair of buttocks I have ever seen. A tanpura tumbled, perhaps. Or watching my son Binu dragging his wasted pair of legs to the wrecked doorsill of our house. He sits there on rainy days floating paper boats on the choked drain running all along. Pure moment of bliss for me in rain soaked pain. Binu dreamt to be an elephant shaped autumn cloud watering the plants in the sky with his trunk. When I asked him of what he wanted to be in life. A sweet looking elephant shaped autumn cloud by profession. With the extremely important task of watering the sky plants .Glowing yellow flowers at heaven’s door watered by Binu shaped autumn cloud .You will probably be curious to know more about Shiuli and the receptionist .I am afraid, I cannot tell you right now. We shall rewind the tape and hear the story from the beginning. Then perhaps you will finally discover and feel. Discover your drama like when drawing curtains on a monsoon-tempered afternoon. Feel a million butterflies flapping in your mind. I might be letting you into my secrets. But with all the reality shows around, who cares? We are all post-modern now, are we not? We have all read Kama sutra, splashy magazines stating which actress sleeps with whom and the rest. Have we not?

                                 I know my saga isn’t that important. Surely it won’t bring a revolution. Million fragmented pieces like me are so deeply interwoven in the country’s fabric. But then, isn’t it tickling knowing the life of one such ‘cheap erotica’ seller. Whose cheap books, you have surely read behind closed doors or under the blanket at some stage of your life.

                           

                                                Baba, will I ever go to school? – Those soft eyes of Binu questions me day and night .Radiant hopes in kerosene light flickers in his heart. Tormenting a father’s soul with nothing much to do. I watch him sleeping and know dreams of a neat school uniform, a decorated tiffin box, a Mickey mouse water bottle is beautifully shaping in his mind. Binu shaped autumn cloud going to heaven’s school. With Mickey mouse water bottle swaying down his neck. Silent crystals glow at the corner of my eyes as I mournfully watch his crippled legs. That teardrop I hold in the cup of my palm is a diamond of memories. Tired smiles of my once domestic bliss reflect on its borders. That sticky pillow with smells of hair oil and smeared vermillion of the morning, that bindi pasted on my opaque mirror, curry stained sari, the soft music from the colliding bangles and thousand shattered piece of memories. Painfully embedded in it. Poor people, rich memories. That hairpin lying on the bathroom floor, that unfinished economical soap soaked in her smell .Memories inside memories. It contains those unheard cries of Bakul, my wife as the bullet pierced her bosom. I was lucky not to be present when the police open fired on the protestors at Horigram. Her blood brought revolution at a cost of hundred rupees. And then the next monsoon washed it away bringing victory. Truckload of living ghost from our Bustee- slum was taken there. Hundred rupees, perhaps was pretty cheap for a life. And for a husband, who never saw his wife again. Not even her body for performing last rituals. At times I feel my city is full of vultures, they live on the corpses of other people’s emotions .That raindrop I hold in the cup of my palm is a diamond of memories. Aching cries of my mother fills the void of my walls. She had been praying long to her God to fulfil her soulful desire of death. And I, my mother’s son had been praying long to my God to eliminate a feeding mouth. Same God, different prayers. Different prayers, seeking same favour. The painful economics of staying alive had washed away debris of love and affection from my sinful soul.

                                           Outside, along the dirty lanes of my slum, I can still hear hand-made crackers bursting. Splinters of fire sucking hundreds of smiles and slowly fading into memory. Pounding mikes playing erotic filmy songs, taking a break from their usual political blabbers.

Nesha nesha legeche premer nesha, Tai Majnu debe Laila ke sasha

(Intoxication of love has intoxicated, so Majnu will give his cucumber to Laila)

 Surreal blinking lights temporarily washing away the persistent darkness. The heavy air carries smell of sweat and alcohol. The clogged municipal drain carries smell of human faeces and wasted blood. Spilled at party clashes. Sleepless eyes drenching their thirst with party-funded country liquor. Dancing away their undying pains for one glorious night. I knew this night quite closely. I had planned for this night, while silently watching moonlight in dewdrops. When Binu perhaps had forgot crying and slept with unquenched hunger. With dreams of Binu shaped autumn cloud watering the sky plants.When my mother had mumbled Hari’s name (Lord Krishna’s name) all throughout her insomniac night. I touched my face on the rusted irons of my curtain-less dilapidated window, feeling the cold on my cheeks and the night on my soul. Men, women and children- jumping, howling, cursing and dancing. Inexpensive t-shirts, saree drapes flying in the air .All hypnotised by tonight’s political freedom .For tonight, the new government of Bengal People’s Party (BPP) completes their one year in power. And I couldn’t find a better day for my confessions. While silently watching all my hopes to fade away in that darkness. Sublimating slowly like the amorphous camphor .For tonight, the freshly purchased rat-kill stands gloomily beside my unpublished erotic novel. Eagerly waiting to finish off another family of rats in the pigeonhole.     

 

                             AMAZON LINK : http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0094VD3DC

N.B :  

THE ABOVE WORK IS FICTITIOUS IN NATURE AND IS THE SOLE COPYRIGHT OF SAPTARSHI BASU. 

ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANY LIVING OR DEAD OR YET TO BE BORN IS MERE COINCIDENTAL.

               

THE FOREIGNER'S GIFT - EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL

{

The below mentioned chapter is an excerpt from my work- THE FOREIGNER'S GIFT  .All characters mentioned ,living or dead is fictional and any resemblance with anyone is purely coincidental

}


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR :

Saptarshi Basu is a gold medalist in mechanical engineering and has worked in the IT industry for the last eight years. However, writing has always been his first love, his passion.  His second novel, Autumn In My Heart was published by Vitasta Publishing with Times Group (TIMES OF INDIA) in November’11. He maintains a blog http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ and writes screenplays for movies and columns for some online magazines.

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                                           My ancestors shifted to Shikohima much before India got its independence. A small island town in Japan well connected on the sea route, it offered a perfect blissful land for trading spices. Gokuldas Shekhawat, my great grandfather had a small business of cardamoms in Kunnor which he later shifted to Shikohima- the land of two rivers. The Ota and Motitsu River crisscrossed each other in a serpentine fashion spreading fertility across its banks. Lush green it was, before little lad landed from the sky. 

                                                 The harbor used to be crowded with vessels and merchant ships whistling sharply sending vibrations in the air. I still remember my childhood spent on the banks of Motitsu playing frog jump on the serene waters with Seigo by my side. How delightedly we watched those fishermen dismantling their catches to be taken to the fish house. Seigo was my best friend. A creamy white boy with a flattened nose, he lived in the small house named ‘Heiwa’ two blocks away from our home. My mother told Heiwa meant peace .You know Shantaram, Seigo and I used to be in the same school. Early morning, when the dew drops still rested on the hibaku leaves, fishermen returning with their early catch and the nearby Shikohima plant yet to blow its morning siren, Seigo and I use to run to school. How much I miss those days, Shantaram .It was heaven .Till hell came down on earth.

                         My father, Nandalal Shekhawat worked as the chief engineer of the Shikohima automobile plant. After completing his engineering from Tokyo institute of Technology, he had joined the then newly setup plant and slowly moved up the ladder. My grandfather at times use to lament saying my father lacked both the zeal and the acumen to run our family business. A tall, well built man with a thin, finely kept moustache, he looked more of an army general than an engineer. I was quite in awe of him. My Daadi used to tell me how frantically they have searched for an Indian bride of the same caste for my father in Japan. It was tough to get one as very few Indian families lived there at that point of time. It was only through one of the close relatives in India that they came to know about my mother’s family in Kure, a nearby port city. The marriage was a lavish one as by that time my grandfather, Ramdas Shekhawat had already made a fortune. I was born after two years of their marriage .Being the only grandson of the family, I was highly adored and pampered by everyone expect my father who was of a quiet nature and a strict disciplinarian.

                                 Summer holidays were fun. I still remember those days crouching by Daadi’s side and listening to her world of stories. Full of kings, queens, giants and dwarfs. Tales of India, river Ganga and its million Gods and Goddesses. How the Rakshas king Ravana eloped Sita and how God Ram killed him. How good prevailed over evil in the end. Daadi use to fall asleep after a few hours, tired of telling stories .Then, I enchantingly watched shadow puppets all over my wall. Sometimes, it was of the ice-cream pedlar strolling with his cart .At times, it was of the lone man cycling all over my dark room on a lazy summer noon. 

                                                                The flower festival was a major attraction for people in Shikohima. The dragon kites encompassed the sky as people dressed in new clothes flocked around the harbours singing and dancing. You know Shantaram, there’s always something strangely beguiling about the sight of a kite ducking and diving with the will of the wind. It looked as if someone has painted the sky with butterflies, flapping their colourful wings all around. Each kite had a different story embedded on it. Some had beautiful Japanese women in kimono drawn on it, while some pictured dragons and even tidal floods .You know, there were about hundred different styles and types of kites, each region having its own unique shape. They were normally decorated with characters from Japanese folklore, mythology or had some religious or symbolic meaning. At times like a hawk spreading its wings .At other times, it took the shape of an angry dragon’s face throwing fire from its mouth. Painted with bright colours and Sumi which is the Japanese name for black ink, they are constructed with washi paper and bamboo. As evening slowly descended and the music catched its speed, Seigo and I use to sit for hours on the banks of Ota mesmerized by the colourful lights.

                                  Seigo’s father, Hiroshi Yamayito made a small boat for us. He was a gifted carpenter .Their house ‘Heiwa’ smelled of fresh wood carvings whenever I visited. We used to sit hours watching mesmerised how he listened to the sound of music of each wood. And then the hard pieces would slowly get soft and take beautiful shapes. He taught us how to fish, Hiroshi and made me the luckiest fishing rod. I still remember my mother keeping a keen watch on us as we rowed the small boat across the banks of Ota fishing salmons.

                                             Then the war started. Troops went passed our homes down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The violet roses of our garden turned grey and our school was closed for almost six months .The plain were rich with crops; there were many orchards of fruit trees and beyond the plain the mountains were brown and bare. There was fighting in the mountains and at night we could see the flashes from the artillery. We heard there were many victories. People worshipped the emperor as God and many civilians joined the war only for him. In the dark it was like summer lightning but never did we felt a storm was coming. Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching under the window and guns going past. Seigo and I use to keep a count of the aircrafts hovering in our vanilla sky. We also watched the flocking citizens crying ‘Banzai’ as the troops left the harbour. The air which once was loathed with flowery fragrance had now been replaced by strong stench of gunpowder.

                                                                       I was eighteen when dad decided to send me to America for study. My Mamaji, Amarnath Chauhan was then residing at Utah working as a physics lecturer at Broadview University. I wanted to stay back in Shikohima but the war conditions were worsening and my father didn’t want to take any risk. My mother opposed the idea of sending a teenage boy so far away from the family. My grandparents also joined. But dad was somewhat adamant, might be he gauzed something. The war was now taking a sudden turn and several residents feared its conclusion. Assured that I was going to stay with my Mamaji, my mother accepted. A week before leaving, my bags were packed with tearful eyes. Seigo came to bid me goodbye. He said that he had taken admission at the local university of Shikohima for a graduation in literature. I looked into his eyes and they were shining with tinge of tear at the corners. We promised each other to write two letters each week even if we were busy. Soon after three days, I left for Utah where I met Li Mei- my beautiful flower.

                                  

  -    By  SAPTARSHI BASU

AUTUMN IN MY HEART- REVIEWED BY PTI ( PRESS TRUST OF INDIA)

http://news.in.msn.com/national/article.aspx?cp-documentid=5854785


http://itvnewsindia.com/new-fiction-takes-fresh-look-homosexuality

FEATURED IN CALCUTTA TIMES -TIMES OF INDIA

AUTUMN IN MY HEART FEATURED IN TIMES OF INDIA-CALCUTTA TIMES

YOUTUBE TRAILER OF AUTUMN IN MY HEART

BOOK REVIEW- AUTUMN IN MY HEART

‘Autumn In My Heart’ by Saptarshi Basu is the tale of the quintessential human being we all have inside us. Be it the Software Engineer guy Deb, or the forced-by-family-to-get-married girl Ayantika, or the other parallel characters like Sagarika, Sujoy, Priyanka, and the office colleagues of Deb – ‘Autumn In My Heart’ tells the story of US, as a whole. The author Saptarshi Basu just had to take the pain to pen it down in a concrete basis in between two covers, efficiently. He did exactly that, and how!

Saptarshi Basu, the author, talks about the Bengali culture and sentiments in a way that not many authors from this side of the country has done recently. At least, not us from ‘Between The Lines’ have gone through such works lately. Naturally, ‘Autumn In My Heart’ was like a whiff of fresh air. And, the author has not disappointed. During these days of SOBA (serial-obsession-of-being-an-author, as we call it sometimes on BTL), Saptarshi Basu brings in some fresh change to the lackadaisical writings that we get to face otherwise. Though‘Autumn In My Heart’ straight reminds me of the Korean movie of the same name (Korean, right? Or Japanese it is? :O), we understand that even phrases tend to become limited at times, when one needs to express himself just like the way he wants to. Talk about cliches, the book never makes you feel it for once.

   READ MORE AT - BOOK REVIEW

THE ARRANGE MARRIAGE CIRCUS

It all started with a Quarrel.

For the last few months, Duttas of Dakhineshwar were

under huge tension. It prevailed over their home and even

spread toxically over nearby regions.

Even the Chatterjees, Biswass Kumar, Gangulys who

stayed in the same colony were in much tension.

The Duttas in the same colony (even some far away

Duttas too) were exceptionally worried. They even tried to

extend their helping hand but Ayantika’s angry expression

always dampened their spirits.

Thanks to a sudden fit of anger, a few glasses were

broken, the red-faced bunny lost his ears and the tense state

of affairs continued.

It was about Marriage. The god damn thing which every

girl hates (at least in front of others) and parents immensely

love.

‘Sono Mouli, Tomake ebar oi chele tar songe dekha kortei

hobe....R kotidin ei bhabe cholbe’

(See Mouli, you have to meet this guy...how long will

it go like this)

Sitala Debi, Ayantika’s mother, was shouting at her.

According to her it was the most suitable alliance and she

had been talking to them since six months and now it was

April already.

'I have told you a million times that I don’t want to get

married right now. Dad, please make mom understand.’

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Soumendra Narayan Dutta, Ayantika’s dad, was the

umpire of the fighting match and was doing his duty quite

efficiently and gracefully.

‘Please don’t cry Mouli, you don’t have to marry now.

Just meet the guy once, no harm.’

‘Mira Masi called up, that guy has sent you an e-mail,

go check it and reply,’ Sitala Debi snarled. The fight ended

(at least for that day).

Ayantika just didn’t want to marry. Not at the moment.

Not until she landed a job with a decent government bank.

She didn’t have much in her hand though. At the doorstep of

the twenty first century, the marriage of a daughter remains

the prime concern and an extremely vital occupation of every

middle class Bengali family.

Marriages are made in heaven and arranged marriages are

made in Bharat Matrimonial or The Sunday Ananda Bazaar,

that’s what they claim .At times the relatives play an important

role bringing in their very distant relatives claiming to know

them very well even when the last telephonic conversation

between them happened two years back! Power packed ads bride

needed for the only son of Highly qualified Chartered

Accountant,also knows scuba diving or looking for MBA, IIT,

CFA, for only sister, very fair, very beautiful.' At times it is

slightly confusing whom is the ad for ?Is it for the Chartered

Accountant father (who from the bottom of his heart really

wants to remarry and throw out the wife, a 1960’s model),

or his son or his daughter!

The father of the bride really has a hectic job finding

a decent groom but then it’s a question of her whole life.

So the drilling starts. The mother of the bride also does

her part... No,No...This guy won’t suit you at all. His uncle’s

daughter eloped with a local hooligan. The expectations make

it tougher to find a suitable match. He is just 5’3...So dark,

how can he manage with this meagre salary?

The bride or the girl at times adds her own requirements

and specifications-Dad, I want a tall guy, size does matter.

Please Ma, I want to marry an engineer. The list gets bigger

and bigger.

The Father of the groom is a bit disappointed as his son

couldn’t find a suitable girl by himself by the age of thirty.

Useless Fellow, can’t find a girl after so many years. The mother

of the groom has started crying for she has already lost her

son to some imaginary girl who plays black magic on him,

thanks to Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi (A popular

television soap). She can’t sleep at night.But then she has

to get her son married. Mukherjee Da’s wife was saying the

other day, 'How long will you keep Nakul unmarried? Marry

him off or else he will start doing all nonsense.'

So the search begins - Groom wanted for extremely fair,

extremely beautiful, extremely calm and quiet girl, MA,

Diploma in dancing (only at night clubs!), Also knows

stitching (couldn’t even stitch the first button of her shirt,

Always open!).... At times the father and brother play a big

role in the ad...Father retired; very well known professor of

very well known college(bucks! Flowing!)....Brother IIT,IIM

blah blah (More bucks! Flowing!)

The groom always had some secret criteria which now

comes forth. She must be very fair like Priyanka whom he

proposed to eleven times with no luck, Should have a very

good figure (Hmm.. Like Payal, the Delhi chick who had

twenty boyfriends in just three years ), should be very homely

( and also shake her hips with me at Night clubs )....And so

the search goes on...and on.....

        -----   From the novel ‘AUTUMN IN MY HEART’

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CAN LOVE HAPPEN TWICE?

READ ON AMAZON : http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009A1ANDY


ABOUT THE AUTHOR :

Saptarshi Basu is a gold medalist in mechanical engineering and has worked in the IT industry for the last eight years. However, writing has always been his first love, his passion.  His second novel, Autumn In My Heart was published by Vitasta Publishing with Times Group (TIMES OF INDIA) in November’11. He maintains a blog http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ and writes screenplays for movies and columns for some online magazines.

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EXCERPTS FROM THE NOVEL -  AUTUMN IN MY HEART

Everyone has a past and so did Deb.

‘Please Priyanka, Please don’t hang up the phone. Listen

to me. You know how tough it is to make a call to US.I have

been trying to call you for last three days. Please, listen to

me! I will make everyone happy. Please! Don’t break the

relationship. I will try to make uncle accept us. Please give

me a chance.’ Deb tried hard to control his tears.

‘Deb, it’s over now. The sooner you accept it, the better.

And please don’t harass my dad with your pestering phone

calls.’ Priyanka said from the other end. Her voice was cold

and devoid of any emotions.

‘How can you say that, Sona? We have had a relationship

for the last ten years. How can you break it in a day?’

‘It’s over Deb. I have someone else in my life. Aditya is

my Project Manager and we are going to get married soon.

It’s a waste of time discussing all those crap, sentimental

old things. I am done with you.’ Deb felt his temperature

rising. His heart was pounding loudly. Also, the phone bill

was rising. He tried to give it a last try. How can she leave

me, Oh God! Please, God, Please bring her back to me.

 ‘Who is this mother-fucker Aditya? Don’t tell me that just

three months in US, and you have forgotten our love.’

Priyanka was working with one of the top IT MNCs

in Kolkata and had gone to Dallas, US for her first onsite

engagement. ‘Aditya can give me all the luxuries of life. Plus,

he is my project manager, so no one can stop my promotion.

You are a loser, Deb.’

‘Oh, I am a loser now! And what about that time when I

spent an entire week beside your hospital bed when you got

jaundice. It was I, who took your dad to hospital when he

broke his leg? I did all the shopping for your whole family

for a month. And now you are saying I am a loser.’

‘Oh! So you did all that to get something in return. Tell

me what you want? I will ask my dad to pay you.’

Deb held his breath for a minute. It pained to let

Priyanka go away from his life. But he could make out that

it was all over. All these ten years, those beautiful nights

chatting over the phone and hugging and kissing. Those

rainy days, movie halls, market places, botanical garden– he

could feel her presence everywhere. The warmth of her

breath, the softness of her touch. How could it be all over?

‘Please Sona, Please.Come back to me…’ Deb could feel

the tears slowly running down his cheeks.

‘I can’t I have already accepted Aditya’s marriage

proposal.’

 ‘You bloody bitch. One day you will repent it. Go to

Hell !’.

Deb threw the phone away. It beeped a while before

going into total silence. He ravaged his cupboard to get

his cigarettes. He got hold of one and sucked it hard till

it reached its end. Deb looked at the burned out cigarette

stub. He felt just like it. Used, abused, sucked, burned and

thrown away.

As each day passed by, Deb felt the pain making a

formidable hole in his heart. The crowded Kolkata streets

felt empty as he struggled to reach his office in the morning.

Sitting at one distant corner of a window in the lazy tram,

Deb gazed blankly at the roads where they had walked hand

in hand. It made him feel that his world was completely

devoid of any happiness.

As time passed by, the emptiness in Deb’s heart

transformed into an uncanny purposelessness. He tried

to spend more and more time in office. But the pain had

grasped him thoroughly, clenching him in its tight clasp. He

was neither able to concentrate on any of the work assigned,

nor did he feel the need from inside.

Slowly, Deb slipped away from the mainstream. He

rejected phone calls from his nearest and dearest friends,

roamed aimlessly on the streets of Kolkata. At times, he spent

hours sitting by the side of the Ganges. As slowly the defeated

Sun drowned in the shining waters, Deb looked vacantly

at the happy couples flocking on the riverbank sharing a

melting ice cream. Suddenly old memories flashed in front

of his eyes making him weaker and smeared him in pain.

The food he loved most had lost its flavour, the streets

had lost their charm, friends had lost their warmth and what

mattered more, life had lost its meaning.

It went on like this for a couple of months. Deb’s

quality of work degraded to the last level leading to daily

skirmishes with his manager. At last, he felt compelled to

resign and started looking for another job. Things were at

their worst. After a month of futile search, Deb still remained

unemployed. By that time, he had lost all the zeal to struggle

for his existence.

Mitali, Deb’s mother could easily understand her son’s

condition. She tried to contact Priyanka. It didn’t help much.

By that time, Priyanka had already changed her US mobile

number. She tried hard to contact Priyanka’s parents only

to surrender helplessly to their threats of a police case for

harrasment.

It was raining heavily that night. As Deb stood there

lonely in the verandah, he could see the gushing waters

overflowing the city drains. The lightening remained frequent

with flashes of light zapping the nearby jasmine tree in their

garden. It was just then that Deb decided to live no more!

As Deb looked at his parent’s smiling photo one last

time, with a shining razor in the hand, a deep-rooted pain

clenched his heart. He felt like crying but perhaps the tears

had dried up in his eyes. The room was scattered with torn

letters and photos of happy times. Outside, the thunder

could be heard frequently. It was as if someone up in the

heavens was protesting against his next action.

He felt reckless one last time. Deb looked at his glass

window with droplets of rain clinging to it. Priyanka’s face

flashed for the last time with the lightning. Her sweet smile

beamed in front of his face. How much he liked that smile!

How he was mad about her! And then it was all over. The

razor shined the last unforgiving minute in his raised up right

hand, till it came down slashing. It was all over. A puddle of

blood formed on the white carpet as Deb lay there, his soul

still fighting to unite with his creator.

Everyone has a past and so did Deb.


READ ON AMAZON : http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009A1ANDY

-                                                                                                                                            

       ---From the novel ‘AUTUMN IN MY HEART’

                     READ MORE @ http://www.flipkart.com/books/9380828541