Tag Archive | creative

Vigil

In a maze of fear-drenched words,
In a heart of hushed up love,
In a rhymeless poem,
And in a fragile shell,
Lies stagnant and still
A dwindling vigil.

Often forgetting itself,
Often revealing itself;
Stiffening itself against the storms,
Mending the strings already torn,
There it lies stagnant and still
An inane and dwindling vigil.

Looking Back

backI never want to, and yet I look back,

I hate it so, and yet I look back,

I know not what I yearn for, I just keep looking back,

I know not who’s looking ahead, I just look back.

Long forgotten, long forgiven,

All the pictures faded away,

But it’s only me, that keep looking that way.

Well, who’d know my plight,

Who’d know why I decide

To let go of all bans,

And just desperately keep looking back…

The Madwoman

“Alright, let’s see the next one- if ten pencils cost 100 rupees, what is the cost of one pencil? Say, Mukul, rack your brains for once!” The haggard looking father tried hard to grasp his 10 year-old son’s attention. He was using the torn face of a carton to carry out the calculations. His filthy shirt almost fell off him, yet the spine chilling cold of January didn’t seem to bother him much. He was heavily engrossed in Mukul’s sums.

Mukul was least bothered about his father’s ceaseless efforts. He lay there grinning at his mother’s customers, a big bowl of puffed rice in his hands. He was in the fifth standard of the nearby government school. It was Saturday and school got over at 11.30. The sun was overhead and the quaint village by the river glistened peacefully. This was bliss and his father’s incessant questions were non-existent. Inaudible.

Mr. Chakraborty was Mukul’s mother’s customer. She was renowned for her priceless guavas, from her own tree. She felt gratified to have customers like Mr. Chakraborty who had come all the way from Kolkata. She always ensured not to disappoint them. Mukul’s father’s plight amused Mr. Chakraborty as well as his son.

“Why, Mukul? Don’t you like studying?” Mr. Chakraborty ridiculed, with a loving smile.

Arey, Dada! You don’t know him. He is grasped by all the diseases of the world simply at the name of studies. Either his stomach aches or he feels giddy, or feels too weak to even open his eyes, or any other ailment under the sun.” Mukul’s mother said complainingly.

“I haven’t asked him to do a single sum. I just asked him to watch me. Even that doesn’t satisfy him,” Mukul’s father laughed. Mr. Chakraborty noticed how clearly Mukul resembled his father. Their grins were hard to distinguish. He caught Mukul’s father pass a covert smile to his wife, a smile that radiated their love for their son in spite of all odds.

Mr. Chakraborty couldn’t help but remember his wife, Sujata. Her gentle comportment, her mild and loving ways, her ever supportive nature , the aura of beauty and humanity which always surrounded her, her infinite, inexplicable love for their son -everything flashed across his mind. But, the thought of that night lingered on. That pit, the shattered car, the dark, lonesome surroundings, her scream, his escape, her death. The days when he was convinced he could no longer go on. The emptiness that had engulfed his life, his being. Yet, his son’s innocent, loving face had given him the courage, the motivation. His son played the double-role for him from then on.

Now Sushanta, his son, was 14. On the verge of becoming a man, Sushanta loved his father dearly. He knew what his onus really was. And he lived up to it.

“That will be 30, Dada,” Mukul’s mother’s voice brought him back. Just as he was about to take out the money from his purse, he was startled by the helpless yells of a woman behind him.

“My son! Oh, my son! They have robbed me of my son! My son!” a shabbily dressed middle-aged woman with the dirtiest hair was groping around, tears streaming across her unclean face, her eyes nearly smoldering with anxiety.  Most of the villagers around were grinning knowingly.

“She’s a madwoman, dada. Don’t bother about her cries,” Mukul’s mother said, reading the puzzled expression on Mr. Chakraborty’s face, “They are only trying to test her. She lost her mind few years back, some say it was because her husband left her. They’ll return her boy soon.”

“See, I told you! She may have lost her mind, but she never lost her love for that kid,” one of the women remarked knowledgably.

“A mother’s love never dies. The world would have died if that happened,” said another.

“Even if the world goes upside down, a mother never stops loving her child,” Mukul’s father added, with the same grin on his drawn face.

The madwoman walked back with her child, holding on to him tightly, as if no force could snatch him away from her.

Mr. Chakraborty paid for the guavas and walked towards the bank of the river. Sushanta clasped his hands as they stood by the river. The river reddened as it prepared itself to devour the bright sun.

The silhouettes of the father and son stood there for a long time. Together.

Holding on

Ten year old Meethu was just opening her school bag when all of a sudden the slider of the zip came off. For a fraction of a second, Meethu was in utter despair, but then she tried to console herself thinking it could be sewed. She rushed off to her mother, yelling anxiously, “Mamma, my bag! Sew it, fast! Please!”

“Do you need to scream like that always, Meethu”, her mother said sternly.

“Mamma, please, it’s urgent!”

“We’ll buy you another bag tomorrow. This can’t be sewed, don’t you know?”

“Mamma, but, why not?” Meethu wailed.

“It’s the slider that has come out. I can not sew it back. Now get going! I’ve got work to do.”

Despondent, Meethu walked back to her room. She clutched on to her bag. It had been her companion for the past two years. In spite of being offered a brand new one this year, she refused to accept it, saying this one best suited her and she loved it the most. She would clean it on her own every two months. This was probably the only cleaning work she did without being told, and did so gladly. The tiny baby-pink thing was her prettiest possession. No other bag, or anything, for that matter, stood a chance in front of it. With some flowers of multiple hues on it, the school bag was her best friend. Every morning this was the only thing which would make her feel enthusiastic to go to the ever monotonous school. The thought of carrying it on her back proudly made a little corner of her heart leap with joy.

Her world was falling apart at the thought that it could not be mended. She stared at it for a long time. Suddenly, an idea struck her. She went up to her mother’s room, opened the shelf where she kept her things, rummaged through it and found one of those larger safety pins she used with her saris. With a grin of triumph, she ran back to her room. With the safety pin, she pinned up the case whose zip had broken and decided to use the other case. Exalting her genius, she felt proud of her idea. Of course, she decided to ignore the quirky appearance of the bag now. At least, it is usable.

 

The next day at school her pinned up bag became the centre of attraction. Some laughed, some mocked, some sympathized, but none of it mattered to her. She was happy, that was all. Beggars can not be choosers, after all.

Very soon, as days passed by, Meethu had to see more of destruction. One of the straps had become loose. She had ignored that, too, of course. But, how long can a dried leave stick to its branch! The strap tore off one fine day. Though now she carried it on one shoulder, Meethu almost felt as though one of her limbs had been separated from her. But then again, where there’s a will there’s a way. And where there is love, there’s an excuse. In spite of being repeatedly asked to use the new bag, she continued with the worn out bag. It looked as ugly as ugly can be- pinned up cases, torn off straps, faded flowers. Only someone completely out of his mind, or someone completely broke, would be using such a piece of trash. Meethu, however, was none of these. She was merely an innocent child, who couldn’t think of abandoning something so easily-something so dear to her.  

 

Days passed. Carrying the bag on one shoulder, ignoring the bizarre appearance, refusing to take the new bag, Meethu went on. Sadly, as fate had it, one day as she was returning home, the bag gave away. Thud! It fell onto the ground. The second strap had betrayed her. Meethu picked up the bag. And the forlorn little girl walked the empty street, embracing the fatally injured bag. As the sun set in the horizon, Meethu felt tired. There was still a long way to walk and the bag felt much too heavy. Yet, she walked on, her silhouette quite akin to that of a loving mother carrying her plump baby fondly in her arms.

Reaching home, she sat on her bed contemplating what to do next. Would she carry the bag in her hands from now on? But, that would be too much of hard work. Or maybe it wasn’t the hard work that bothered her. It was the fact that Mamma would no longer comply with her excuses. It was already too much. And the poor little bag, too, had taken more than enough. Maybe it was time for her to rest.

Meethu decided to be reasonable and stop going on with the bag any longer. She emptied it of its contents and opened Mamma’s safety pin from it. Wrapping it up with a cloth, she delicately kept it in a corner of her cupboard. “So what if I don’t use it anymore, it can still be my companion forever,” she smiled. And there lay in that little corner, Meethu’s best-loved companion, her prized possession, warts and all.

 

Forbidden Expectations

final

And yet again, we expect what we shouldn’t,

Love whom we mustn’t,

Pray for the impossible,

And again, the broken laws are so palpable.

 

Hoping in the most hopeless moments,

Reminiscing the beginning even in the end,

Cherishing those incomplete memories,

We live on by ignoring so many vagaries.

 

All of it as futile as futile can be,

Yet there continues those euphoric dreams,

For they complete our beings,

They surpass our limitations,

And so, there lives forever the forbidden expectations.

The above sketch is by Anwesha Saha (owner of As The Ink Flows).

Unsung

Close by her walked he,

His breath too she could feel,

That unsung tune still lingered inside,

She wanted to but didn’t look beside.

 

Day dawned every dawn,

And she still lived with that song,

Inside of her, unsung it laid,

And she wished he’d just fade.

 

She kept walking, he walked too,

Every time she thought of him, she felt like a fool.

Within herself she heard a myriad of tunes,

But that one unsung, she couldn’t remove.

She walked, he walked by her side,

Never held hands, never turned beside.

To a Child

I was baffled; disappointed with life,

Didn’t expect anywhere, solace to find;

The blows were hard on me,

The extent of pain I couldn’t deem.

Walking alone, drowning into  perplexity,

Suddenly my gaze caught yours curiously.

You were frowning, struggling to get that shoe right,

Your impatience you didn’t hide.

You saw me staring, with a subtle ridicule,

But, you saw at the same time what no one could.

Though you were desperate to get the shoe right,

You looked up and gave me a smile.

Words will fall short, and I’ll be a called a fool,

If I were to tell how much I owe you.

For you made me see, for that fleeting moment,

The child within me, calm and innocent.

Maybe life won’t get any better for you or for me,

But innocently smiling we will forever be.