IceAndBlood

  Recently, I went to Murshidabad with a few relatives, for a short trip. Relatives, as is in my case, would be the last people on earth whom I would like to accompany in a trip but then, sometimes, you have no other option than to compromise. Maybe one day isn’t enough to pass a judgment. Yet, I failed to find anything worthy of my wasted time and spree, over there. Historical places have never interested me and Murshidabad too had no reason to like me at all. So, I returned, broken, disgusted and enervated by the hardship of the journey.   On my way back, our bus halted near a petrol pump. I got down. It was a beautiful night. One of those nights that stun you. One of those nights that make you stop and listen to the sounds of silence. I wandered alone till I reached a small shop of chocolates, biscuits, spices, and other trivia. There were a couple of benches in front of the shop. About three to four people were sitting and lazing there. One of them grabbed a packet...

A young lady called me up a couple of months ago. She didn’t know me but somehow, she had gotten the idea that I was a poor sad kid who has been quite depressed and needed a bit of sympathy. She introduced herself as someone who has been in the same shoes for quite a long time and guess what! The first thing she asked me was: “Are you sure you are not playing the victim card, or maybe, doing all this to gain attention?” Well, well. Now that’s a great start! In fact, a grand start! I felt a punch of laughter kicking at my tummy. I didn’t know how to answer her, or whether to answer at all.   Well, suppose someone confided in you that it was not going well for him/her. That he/she wanted to kill himself/herself and maybe even let’s suppose that he/she told you so, to gain attention. Suppose, someone did attempt suicide and however ridiculous it may be, did so to gain attention. Would you go and ask him/her, ‘Hey! Are you playing victim card?” Would you do that as someone ...

  Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, pondering, brooding over all sorts of things. Eccentric. Ridiculous. Fantastical. Things that exist solely in dreams. I was born in the year of promises and hopes. The year in which Arundhati Roy received the Booker for her magnum opus ‘The God of Small Things’. The enigmatic masterpiece that has continued to stun hearts through years. The piece that cemented my fate overnight. I was born in the year rejuvenation and ruination. Just like shards of coloured glass, sunshine glistened over the glass panes of our cramped up rental house. Unwanted, unwelcome. I was born in the year of love and war. The year of all-or-nothing. I wailed into life. I survived. A miracle, indeed. Even now, I can’t help wondering what made my frail heart beat so stubbornly that moment? That moment of reckoning. The moment that made all the difference. What made me wail so idiotically into an empty world, that day? Was it determination? Was ...

Let me begin with a story from my childhood. This was years ago, back when I was in class 4 or 5. I had been a quiet, shy and reserved child from my early years. I made few friends. It was the time when my parents finally decided to admit me into a pool car for travelling to and from school. The children tried to make me talk for the first few days but when that failed they started to laugh at me. “Don’t stare, idiot! Look out of the window!” or sometimes “Look at your feet. Yes. Stay like that.” They would command. Being meek and scared, I used to do as they told me, with teary eyes. One day, one of the elder children passed by me in the playground and as she did, she clapped me on my back and commented, “Abnormal child!” I stared at her as she disappeared in the distance. Years have passed, I have come to see and perceive life differently, I have taken hold of my life, I have made bunch of friends and that memory has reduced to nothing but a residue of ash. Yet, the sting of those wo...