A DIARY LEAF - MIRA’S TALES

My God died young. Theolatry I found
Degrading, and its premises, unsound.
No free man needs God; but was I free?

― Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire

                                                                  My name is Mira, whom perhaps, no man on this very earth will ever possess.  I am famous now, full of men around me, but then…my God died very young. The day He made me…

                             My days are now very busy. The shooting of my next film is about to end in a week. Tension and thrill mixed in my veins run as pleasure seekers. Today was one such busy day. My film is on a man who fights with his own identity from his very childhood. The suppressed feminity within made him vulnerable equally to his friends and foes .They made joke of him, played with his emotions .When at last, he underwent surgery and became a woman.

                                          My doctor called me up today and asked about my operation, how I was feeling. Till now, it went on well I think .I still have a slight persisting  pain in my bosom and below, rest is all fine.

Just a few years before had we thought of all these possibilities in India?  Is it right to tamper with God’s decision. Questions like these had corroded my childhood. But then, what can you possibly do, if you felt someone else inside your own body. Trapped in the dungeon of your heart pit. My parents felt I was obsessed , they were pained to see the adulteration in my behavior. I was pained myself, fighting with who I am. My God never helped me, made a joke of me and asked me to fight back. As I grew up, as I got more haunted, I fought for the identity my heart looked for. And slowly amidst these fights, my God silently died…

                   Thank God, my movie is coming off well. It was very difficult to get an actor for the role. No one was obliged or happy to do it. I really like Amarjit, my hero. I feel he is doing a fantastic job. On a second thought, I feel I have a slight crush on him. The way he looks at me. His gym overworked masculine body. His erotic body smell. His swindling curls in that afternoon rain…

     My fights were my very own. Still they are. The decision of the operation was a tough one. My parents were shocked with fear. There were vehement protests from different strata’s of the society. But then, in turmoil times, your decisions should be rock solid. And the decision was my very own.

Have I done the correct thing, I don’t know. Coming out of the closet and declaring my identity. But I couldn’t continue with the iron shackles on my conscience. I was trapped inside.

                                                   No free man needs God, but was I free?...Perhaps, I was never….For I was born as Mrinmoy…A man with a woman’s feelings buried deep inside…Mira was born after surgery….

           Let’s pack up now as its turning really dark….

TO READ THE COMPLETE STORY - BUY THE BOOK




WONDER LUST - COLLECTION OF STORIES ON EROTICA - from AMAZON KINDLE


BUY HERE :      https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0092FIJH0

About the author:

Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medallist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in IT industry for last 8. However, writing has always been first love, his passion. His second Novel , AUTUMN IN MY HEART published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group (Times of India)  launched in november'11 has already created a lot of stir due on causes of broken heart and homosexuality.

Blogging and travelling are the biggest pursuit of him. He had subsequently travelled and lived in London, Toronto, San Francisco, Dubai till he came back to Kolkata, his hometown.

                Saptarshi Basu also does screenplay writing for movies and columns for some online magazines

THE LAST KISS OF DECEPTION

THE LAST KISS OF DECEPTION

EXCERPTS ......

The eerie darkness of the murky night got disturbed by the howling of the lone dog.

    It was slowly drizzling outside. Mishra Ji’s restless sleep got disturbed with the pitiful cry and he sprang up. Despite of the unrelenting cold, he kept profusely sweating .Looking outside, he shivered as the thunder stuck the barren land adjacent to his shanty. Tiny drops of rain clinched to the glass window as he slowly came down from his bed. He searched for his glass of water kept beside his bed and gulped at once. The whole house seemed fast asleep, untouched with the tumult happening outside and inside Sashodhar mishra’s feeble heart. He opened the window a bit to feel the gushing wind on his face.Dark,rigid lines appeared on his forehead as he feebly repeated the single sentence ,bringing chill down his spine.

‘Give me your daughter or return the money!’

‘gggivee mmeee your daughter or return the money in a month! Or else….’

He blankly stared at the ravine gushing with the rain water. The edgy thoughts came creeping each and every moment into his mind. He felt time was passing by. But there was not much in his hand. Eight lakhs and that too in just a month!!! It was impossible for him…Mishra Ji’s business was running into troubled waters and he barely managed his family.

             Suddenly a streak of lightning struck on the barren paddy field and Mishra Ji dropped the glass from his hand. The steel utensil made a cracking sound before coming to a standstill. He started trembling and immediately closed the window. A few seconds after, Mishra Ji fugitively slide the window covers to have a glance at the ravine. He looked for a moment but no one was there. Sashodhar Mishra cursed himself for his foolishness and felt relieved. And just then! he realized that the shadow he had seen crossing the ravine was now entering his compound!

     Mishra Ji trembled and ran towards the drawing room .He fearfully checked if his wife or daughter was awake but no one could be seen. A bit relieved, he opened the door .The shadowy figure slowly removed the blanket and a mid-aged man emerged. In the dim light of the verandah, he looked straight into Mishra Ji’s eyes terribly. His threatening words made Mishra Ji hysterical.

 ‘Mano yaa Maro (agree or die).

Your Daughter or My Money –it’s your choice!!!’

About the author:

Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medallist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in IT industry for last 8 years . However, writing has always been first love, his passion. His second Novel , AUTUMN IN MY HEART published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group launched in november'11 has already created a lot of stir due on causes of broken heart and homosexuality.

Blogging and travelling are the biggest pursuit of him. He maintains a blog called http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ which had huge following with visits from all over the world. He had subsequently travelled and lived in London, Toronto, San Francisco, Dubai till he came back to Kolkata, his hometown.

Saptarshi Basu also does screenplay writing for movies and columns for some online magazines

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

}


---------------------------------------

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.

---------------------------------------

                                           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

LOVE MARRIAGE YA ARRANGED MARRIAGE ?

   

 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 2 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 of finding a decent groom but then it’s a question of her whole life. So 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 fled with a local hooligan. The expectations make it tougher to find 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 goes bigger and bigger.

The Father of the groom is a bit disappointed as his son couldn’t find a suitable girl by himself even at 30 years of age. Ekta Dharosh tumi (Useless Fellow), can’t find a girl after so many years, he has in his mind. The mother of the groom has started crying for she has already lost her son to some imaginary girl who plays JadooTona (mumbo jumbo) on him, thanks to KYUN KI SAAS BHI KABHI BAHU THI ( A popular television soap ).She can’t sleep at night .But then she has to get his son married.Mukherjee Da’s wife was telling the other day.... How long will you keep Nakul unmarried?get 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 plays a big role in the ad...Father retired very well known professor of very well known college( bucks! Flowing! ) ....Brother IIT,IIM bla bla (More bucks! Flowing! )

                                         The groom always had some secret criteria which now comes forth....She must be very fair (As Priyanka whom he proposed 11 times but no luck), Should have a very good figure (Hmm..Like Payel,the Delhi Chik who had 20 boyfriends in just 3 years ),should be very homely ( And also shake her hips with me at Night clubs )....And so the search goes on...and on.....

                                                     The two family’s sits on the opposite sides of the table smiling (and remains smiling...always smiling).The groom has already started liking the bride’s cousin sister...Smart glances being exchanged...Here comes the bride with the tea tray in her hand....A bit shaking ( God!!! The Tequila’s last night was quite strong at Tantra )... Eso Ma,Ki misti Dekhte (Come my Daughter! So swheet)…The groom has already started dancing around the trees…Thanks SRK!!

                                  All well that ends well…So was the marriage and the reception….barring some minor incidents… The bride had too much makeup …The groom’s red underwear was clearly visible throughout the wedding. Some optimistic hearts here and there…This is my number…Please call me…I have the full Brilliant Tutorials IIT Material…Although I am studying BCOM now … OMG! The groom was bald on the marriage day and now he has full grown hair!...Thanks to Habib’s.Ambarish got a bit carried away with two pegs of Royal Stag and tried to kiss the bride’s cousin sister…She is hot Man!!!!.....all well that ends well….

Poor humans!!! It never ends!! The painful saga has just begun my friend….

                                             And then the clock ticks 11:30.All too tired after the reception…Except for the Groom…Come on Man!!! This is the night!!....He had waited for 30 long years. Apart from the little Hanky Panky with Ruchi, that too at Nicco park, today he wants to pump to glory. The room smells too flowery as Ambuj Da, his elder brother has really stuffed it with flowers, everywhere, all over the bed, above the bed and the not so fitting ones, below the bed. The bride sits a little distantly at the farthest corner of the bed…Groom fidgeting with the Ganda Fool…A bit tense atmosphere across the room…Abrupt hushing outside… OMG! They haven’t started yet! When will he finally do it? The groom’s boudis too excited, trying to peep and see what’s happening inside….It’s getting late!!! Groom getting more tensed… Shono na, why don’t you change your saree…It can get spoiled…Its too expensive…. Oh!!! So you want to see me naked so early….Bapiiii!!! Whom did you select for me L ,anger peeping out from the bride… I don’t sleep so early, and where’s my glass of milk…haven’t you told your Mom that I can’t sleep without a glass of milk at night...The bride replies back…God!!! She needs milk, where’s my milk…Groom’s condition deteriorating…Please excuse me for today…I totally forgot to tell mom, tomorrow onwards everything will be perfect….Now,Can we please go to bed errr I mean to sleep…..I need to change…Bring me my bag….Can you go outside please ….What!!!! Please, I can’t go outside…All my Boudis are standing at the door I know….And I am your husband…for the next seven lives….The groom smiles …..Moron….I think it’s my seventh and last  life with you…..The bride saying in her hearts of heart….In the mean time, the groom has reached quite close to the bride, though both in sitting position…The groom tries to play a little piano with the Bride’s fingers…She takes it away fast….The silken Sherwani has already started biting the groom so he wants to change to something simple and free flowing….I think we better change and get into something comfortable….The groom speaks up and proceed to change…without looking back…..Although a passionate desire had already grasped him…He looks at the shorts which he has been wearing the last 5 years, Picks it up but reluctantly leaves it…The idea of an old short that too in the first night won’t be too good...Shifting inside a pajama…Newly bought….As he changes, the rhythmic jingle of bangles comes to his ear….Giving a frightful square look of not getting caught, he could see her creamy back and the shoulders quickly getting draped into a night gown….The fire inside has already started raging…He feels an intense desire to kiss her...but steps back in case he sends some wrong signal of being branded as a Sex Maniac…He is so cold….At least could have  kissed my …. The bride feels as she quickly changes…. Riju Da was far better….He use to kiss me so passionately…Why Bapi dumped him just because he was a sales representative…

                                            Both lies flat in the bed pretending to sleep….But both remains strongly awake….The groom still thinking how to start….Will I start with a kiss…or embrace her…or…or…. God!!!! When will he do something…Are you feeling tired? You must be…Thank God, Everything went well…The groom starts a conversation…The Zero Watt Red dim light had its own effect on the whole room…It had spread it’s romantic wings embracing the two newcomers to the marriage arena…The groom looks deep into the bride’s eyes….both looked tired…She has got such beautiful big eyes…This was the first time he was looking deeply into them…Apart from the Subho Dristi Time…The bride felts a fervent desire to run her fingers through his cropped hairs but resist herself…The conversation slowly stops…But the gaze continues…Both Looking deeply into each other eyes…She liked his tired smile…He slowly starts caressing her hair….And then the ‘first night together’ begins with a deep long kiss…






-       SAPTARSHI BASU

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.

GUITAR,GRASS,GIRLS - FIRST PAGE OF THE NOVEL

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

About the author:

Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medalist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in IT industry for last 8 years and has worked for the top 3 IT companies of India (INFOSYS,TCS & WIPRO). However, writing has always been first love, his passion. His Debut novel- LOVE {LOGIC} AND THE GOD'S ALGORITHM is now a national best-seller in Infibeam, a premier online store.

His second Novel , AUTUMN IN MY HEART published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group launched in november'11 has already created a lot of stir due on causes of broken heart and homosexuality.

Blogging and travelling are the biggest pursuit of him. He maintains a blog called http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ which had huge following with visits from all over the world. He had subsequently travelled and lived in London, Toronto, San Francisco, Dubai till he came back to Kolkata, his hometown.

                Saptarshi Basu also does screenplay writing for movies and columns for some online magazines

                                 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

       

GUITAR, GRASS, GIRLS

-          

                     It was about that goddamn letter!  It silently smiled towards him as if it was happy to be discovered at last. For these last six months, Mark Loffler had undyingly devoted his heart and soul to unearth the mystery. And now, frightened and trembling he knew he was very close to it.

It was tough to gather the courage to open the letter. At last Mark did it. Even in the darkness of the eerie night, he felt that it was a bit dilapidated although still unopened. No doubt it was aged and stored in the metallic chest for a long, long time. Drawing a cross over his heart, his hand trembled as he tore open the bluish mail from the US post. A bucolic stench blotched his nose. The letter dated 20^th August, 1971 was addressed to Rabindranath and send from a person called Jennifer Houston. Mark’s heartbeat skipped a second .The gushing wind tried to carry the long hidden secret from his hand. Holding it securely, Mark looked deep into the letter. God knows why no one had bothered to open it earlier .More since it was addressed to Rabindranath, one of the most creative musician of his times.

                                                                          Mark Loffler had no doubt about his creativity as this was the person who had given a new direction to his post doctorate research on Tagore’s music for which he had travelled miles from his hometown in Berlin. Reasons of all kind clamped his mind. It might be due to fear, Mark thought. Rabindranath was a psychedelic person having mysterious connection to the world of witchcraft .The room was dark but the periodic lightning enabled him to read it slowly. The secret was about to be unearthed and he felt he might be cursed along with it. But then, his curiosity has reached to his climax to uncover the truth. Slowly he started mumbling the slanted lexis written by an unknown American lady to an extraordinary Bengali intellectual.

‘My Dearest, I had not received any letter from you for long. I am really worried about your health. How was your concert, still waiting to hear about it? As for me, I too am having an incredibly miserable time. With profound grief, I have to tell you that, our beloved Jim, who had always reminded me of you, is no more….’

                                          Somewhere nearby a loud lightning struck the Banyan tree. Mark rubbed the droplets of sweat from his forehead. Slowly the secrecy was getting unraveled. He could clearly understand that he was pretty close to solving one of the greatest mysteries which clouded the world of music for centuries. And now, standing on the creepy rumbled house in Bonbihari Dutta Street overlooking the holy Ganges, Mark felt his heartbeat had gone wild.

                                                And then, he wickedly smiled. ‘So…’ he said to himself reading the same lines once more, ‘The greatest Jim Morrison is no more’.

N.B : -   The above work is completely fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or yet to be born is purely coincidental.

A FAREWELL TO FAGS

Roll Sound, Camera, Action!

    Slowly behind the camera the giant of a man and his tall frame emerges, erect and slim. A frail cigarette dangling on his lips. You look into his face and recognise him instantly, the enigmatic versatile genius, Satyajit Ray. Magical images of Pather Panchali (song of the road) and Apu trilogy shapes up in that cloudy smoke coming out from his cigarette.

We leave those beautiful memories behind and come to more recent times. Perhaps at one of the most happening Malls in Kolkata. A new Feluda movie had viralled on the theatres. Prodosh Chandra Mitra or our beloved Feluda, the charismatic private detective is in deep thoughts .Another iconic creation by the great man talked above .As the mystery slowly unfolds in his rich brain, he smokes his beloved Charminar. And after a series of Charminar done, the villain is undone, audience overwhelmed.

Bengal is the land of intellectuals. It always was. And when intellectuals are there, how can smokes be far. Creativity and intellectuality had been embodied magnificently in those slim paper rolls. Girls love you with that slim thing dangling from the end of your mouth. And slowly it had turned into a domestic fashion. Every second person you see on the road, at office, at restaurants, at bars does smoke –even if he or she is distantly related to creativity. Emaciated people, obese people, rich people, poor people, CPM, Trinamool have one thing in common- they all smoke here, in Bengal.

 I don’t exactly remember when I joined the smoking club. Perhaps, quite young. Perhaps, quite attracted by those angelic intellectuals. How united they all looked with their fags. Those dreamy television scenes! Looked as though my Hero was completely incomplete without it. I was too excited to start. I gladly condemned my father who had been a non-smoker all throughout his life. An exception doesn’t make a rule, I told myself. And then I smoked into glory. The glory of opaque clouds. I coughed, I cursed. But I continued.

Slowly as I entered my college-hood days, I felt deeply happy. For almost everyone was like minded. In one thing atleast.United in their choice of smoking. United in agreement that this was the unique solution to all our adolescent problems. From Neruda lovers to TeniDa lovers. From the canteen boy to electronics Engg first boy. From professors to latrine cleaners. Almost everyone. Except a few gym-goers and frantically athletic ones. We sidelined them, calling that body isn’t everything. You need to activate your drooping brain cells with that grey cloud. Girls appreciated. They felt it was manly. To smoke, I mean. We felt it was manly. To make them feel it, I mean. ‘Counter’ was the catchword. As Navy Cut-s through our still fresh lungs, we kept on enjoying. Movies magically portrayed them. The best of the brains were always shown smoking on the idiot box. Slowly, the rule became an addiction. And Addiction became necessity. Till things started falling out of place.

    I, who once had won a medal in 600- metre race during Stone Age, was panting like a dog after running less than 50 metre. My friends were not far behind. So, I felt whatever happens, happens to all. A few lungs disease, a few breathing problems, a few fallouts here and there. Hardly noticeable though, because by now almost every noticeable person smoked.

I read it somewhere ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger’. We were not killed by God’s grace by now .We were definitely stronger. We believed that we are intellectuals. Creative human beings. Who smoked.  But hardly created anything. Surprisingly, our beloved Anup Da who sold country liquor also thought the same. That he was a creative person, while sending rings of smoke in the air. We trusted him.

But slowly as years passed by and we ripened, our reverie looked painfully over. Roktim was detected with lung cancer, Sujit with severe gastritis problems. All credited to our beloved friend for long. Roktim left smoking but little life was left with him. Sujit still suffers from the prolonged drought of gastric ulcer. He had even left his favourite mutton Biriyani and now engages himself only in boiled vegetables. Still, we were unfazed. And also the world around us. We continued our dedicated devotion to our slim friend. Who went up in smoke with a kiss and fire.

Girls changed. I mean their vision about smoking. Now, as they softly tread into our lives as wives, the once manly thing became polluting. Corroding. Disturbing. Unhealthy. And thousand other dictums. We were surprised, how contradictory! Domestic skirmishes continued. Till some old fighters of the smoke gave up their lighters.

I tried many a times unsuccessfully to quit. Once and for all!  It pains to see that even with the growing consciousness about cancer and other tobacco related diseases, every second or third person you meet during your day, still smokes. And what’s more painful, the young minds are continuously attracted to the whims of the silent killer. Truly, it’s a silent killer. Since you never know that with each fag and each puff, it’s killing you day in and day out. Office pressures, exam pressures will always be there. And even with thousand fags you can’t use your grey cells more. Nicotine is better an insecticide than to make a permanent abode in your head. Movies will keep on continuing showing your favourite hero smoking on screen. Your favourite writer thinking deeply on his easy chair with a fag in his hand. Your favourite rock star emerging from the ethereal smoky clouds. Imitate their good habits, enjoy their brilliance, cultivate their creativity.

But do say farewell to fags! 

BAREBACKLIT MAGAZINE - DEAD MAN TALKING

Happy to post the BAREBACKLIT MAGAZINE'S JULY 2012 ISSUE & 


my Poem ' DEAD MAN TALKING' in it

READ BELOW :

http://www.barebacklit.com/Poetry-July-2012.html

THE BEARDED MAN IN MY HEAD

That day, as I watched those raindrops sliding on our window, I remembered him again. ‘Pagla Hawa, Badol Dine…’ echoed inside my heart. Looking  through the window, I imagined my nephew’s paper- boat trembling and stirring in the monsoon. Somewhere deep inside, in the heart of my heart, an unsung pain kept craving for something. The moth-eaten meaninglessness tore me apart as suddenly the outside became discoloured with irrelevant marks, smudges and gaps. The man as I told you, was always there . Inside my now, grown up head.





READ MORE @  http://unboxedwriters.com/2012/06/the-bearded-man-in-my-head/

NAUGHTY BOY

Corporate Offices, if you ask me in some way, is nice. At least they won’t let you feel the weather outside. Sweaty mornings, Scorching afternoons, Crimson evenings or Clandestine nights, all looks the same from your pushback chair and eternally drawn curtains. Whatever the weather outside, you remain cool inside. And whatever be the time, nine o’clock in the morning or nine o’clock in the night, if your gruesome Manager smilingly ask you ‘Howz going?’, you make a face like Alfred Hitchcock and say ‘just Great!’ . I have been doing this for long. From the day I enlisted myself in the rat-race. From the day I started searching that crisp currency paper happiness. I read somewhere that the greatest John Lennon wanted to be happy. Just happy. By profession! Contrary to our usual choice of being Engineer, Doctor, Lawyer, Professor and so on. It so happened because the legend was told by his mother at the tender age of 5 that ‘Happiness was the key to life’. I don’t remember if my mom had told me so and ever if she did, for the less mortals like me happiness was always the by-product of the golden word - Money. I have also heard and somewhat weakly believe that this money brings Honey too, but I won’t get into that right now. I want my article to be filed under Parental guidance, so Honey gone.

                                       So, as I was saying, I have been packing bags, travelling places, shuffling jobs, meandering life in search of that happiness. I don’t know how close or how far I am from it. But still when it rains in the evening and I suddenly pull up the corporate curtains to have a glimpse of it, I can clearly hear my heartbeats. Like dull thud on your ear bones. It gives me the feel I am still alive. And I badly, sadly and heartily miss my Naughty Boy days.

               Those were the days of my life! Feeling a thousand rain needles on your face and running with the plastic ball towards a hazy water-bottle crafted goalpost. Or playing Hide & Seek on the cemented grounds of your school. With Naughty Boy at your feet. I remember it became a fashion in those innocent times, wearing the shoemaker Bata’s Naughty Boy. And I remember I pestered my father to have one. Concrete classrooms, muddy playgrounds or tarmac roads, it never left you. Nor did the innocence .In those happy times. When life was without video games and Spellbee competitions, but with lot of fun. When radiant eyes were filled with dreams of ice-cream and chocolates than the bundle of crisp notes in our opaque times. When the girl who sat next to you was really your dearest friend. In those innocent times!

                               Days changed. Time passed. I grew up. Naughty Boy was gone. Torn and tattered. Thrown away from my life. But even today, somewhere I dearly miss that Naughty Boy in me. I miss it badly. And every day wearing those Ganuchi shoes makes me feel so pretty incomplete. And every day while on the roads, as I watch those innocent faces in not so innocent times, in our metro jungle, video game addicted kids, with mammoth sized schoolbags, I miss their happy smiles. Where Skyscrapers, plush malls rule without a single playground in near vicinity. I stop my car, and at times try to look at their feet. Do they still have that Naughty boy in them!