TOGGLING DREAMS

Fondling a dream is just like having a cup of steaming Darjeeling tea in delicate china.

The aroma intoxicates one more than the dark golden brown liquid.

The space between the sips is punctuated by immortality.

And when you suddenly topple over something.

Precariously balancing the cup and the saucer on your thumb and forefinger

You realize it's a dream

Soon to be lost if not held in a strong, firm hold!

LINKS TO MY OTHER POSTS

http://writespace4iw.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/nostalgia-the-cashmere-shawl-by-geetashree-chatterjee/

http://writespace4iw.wordpress.com/2011/08/14/emotion-in-verse-the-alien-city-of-joy-by-geetashree-chatterjee/

THE EERIE ECHO OF DEATH

Maa had lately been complaining about my forgetfulness, “You’ve become very absent minded these days,” she said a little testily. I did not argue the point. There was nothing to say, in fact, which could prove otherwise. The discordant note surfaced when I cribbed about a telephone number which I had written down safely somewhere but now could not remember where. I had already spent half of my hard earned Sunday looking for it. The number was very important, belonged to one of my colleagues, whom I had to pass on an urgent, official message, since I intended to take two more days off and would not be seeing her before the next Wednesday. I tried to locate my Office Telephone Directory, a copy of which I kept handy at home, but in vain. The General Telephone Directory had been borrowed by my neighbour and never returned. I was stumped. What to do?

 

I tried to recall the number from my memory bank which seemed in want of a strong tonic. I vaguely recollected the number ended with the digits 7353. I knew the area code of the locality where my colleague stayed. My friend resided there too with whom I was in the habit of chatting over phone quite often. Putting two and two together I dialled the number hoping fervently that I would be lucky to get hold of the right person on the other end. A gruff voice answered the call. No, it was a wrong number. I tried another permutation combination. A woman’s voice replied a little suspiciously, “Who is it?” I repeated the number. “Yes, that’s it.” She answered. I asked for my colleague. No such person was available on that number. I sighed and kept down the receiver.

 

But not for long. Another attempt was called for. This time I changed the last digit to the next consecutive number and continued with my experiment. Oddly the same female voice replied who had attended my last call. The same cautious way of saying hullo. Without speaking I kept back the phone and drew an end to the hit and trial method I had adopted to catch hold of my colleague on the phone. It would have been much wiser to store her land line as well as mobile number in my mobile. Instead I had just scribbled down her residential number on a piece of paper thinking I would note it down in my diary later. But as luck would have it, neither could I find that valuable piece of paper nor her number. In Bengali there is a saying which if roughly translated would read as the householder gets a brainwave after the thief has left the premise. I chastised myself for being so careless and promised not to repeat the same mistake again. Tired of dialling wrong numbers, I decided to end this never ending number chasing game. But God had something else in store for me.

 

As I was about to retire to bed with a racy book in hand the phone rang. Somehow the resonance of the bell had an eerie note to it. I picked up. The same female voice who had answered my last call spoke up, “I have received a call from this number on my land line.” Obviously, her instrument had a caller ID facility. For a moment I was confused and tried to figure out what went wrong during the last telecom. Then I realized I had kept down the phone without answering. I apologized now. Yes, I did call up but realizing it to be a wrong number I did not waste time.

 

The voice did not relent, “Are you sure?” The question took me by surprise, “I ...I don’t understand...What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t I know?” The voice came strong now, “Aren’t you keeping a tab on me. You....S*...” A string of unprintable words followed. I was stunned. “Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I summoned my dignity as she gasped for breath in between the free flowing foul language that she seemed quite accustomed to mouthing. “Since the day he has left, it’s the same story. Blank calls. Repeated blank calls. When you do not have the courage to speak up why do you ring, you...”Her voice sounded slightly shaky.

 

Curiosity had the better of me now, “Who has left you?” I asked without thinking, “Oh! Don’t you know? Acting innocent after robbing him from me! What do you think I'll dish out the divorce easily?” Whoa! It did not take two seconds for the whole story to sink in. Her husband had left her for another woman and she thought it was me. Aghast, I shrieked, “Whattt?”Before she could breathe out a whole new series of carefully chosen expletives I hung up. There was no point in arguing or explaining to her. She seemed quite out of her mind. Enough for the day. Served me right for being so inquisitive.

 

If I had thought that slamming down the phone was the end of it all I was sadly mistaken. The phone rang again, I picked up instantly, If it was her I was ready to lash out my piece of mind to her. But there was a spooky silence on the other end. “Hullo”, I repeated, “Hullo!” There was a soft whirring noise on the line which I at first mistook as the raspy breath of the caller. But then to my horror I realized it was the whirl of a voice recorder. Somebody was trying to record my voice. This was serious business. I rammed down the receiver. My mobile rang. It was my sister. Before she could speak a word I screamed the morning’s mishap into her ears. “If she calls again, inform the police,” came her sane advice.

 

I was a bit soothed. But the word police had such an uncanny association of harassment with it. Nevertheless I waited with bated breath. The morning wore on. It was already wasted. A restless afternoon gave way to a panic ridden evening. Maa did try to find out what was the cause of this uncalled for tension. But I purposely kept her in the dark. One stressful specimen in the household was enough for the weekend. I could not allow her to worry with me over such bizarre issue.

 

The phone occasionally rang and was cut short midway. Neither did I pick nor call the police. I just sat there staring at its age old model and wondered what I had gotten into. After a while, when my eyes strained and I could feel the beginning of a headache I placed the receiver off the hook and went to sleep.

 

***

 

Why do we always get brainwaves in the middle of the night? As I woke up in the midst of a bout of fitful sleep the thought of getting my colleague’s number from ‘Just Dial’ occurred to me. But of course I remembered soon that the facility did not enlist private numbers. But then I was startled wide awake. Oh what an idiot I was. Why didn’t I ask 197, (the telephone exchange)? I cursed myself for being such a muddle headed, turned to my side and dozed off.

 

***

 

Two days later I had my eyes glued to a small piece of news in the Daily. A middle aged lady strangled to death in her bedroom by some unknown assailant. The woman was married but her husband had left her because she was mentally unstable and suspected that he was having an affair with another woman. No valuables were missing from the house. The police was on the look out for more clues to book the culprit. A Rajouri Garden address was mentioned below where the victim resided. My colleague whom I was frantically trying to locate on telephone last Sunday resided in Rajouri. I had dialled a Rajouri number the other day when the call had boomeranged. Did this have some connection with the odd incident of the weekend? I wondered. I seriously wondered.

 

During the day, as I recounted the exciting piece of news to my sister, she came up with another of her sane advices, “Keep your mouth shut.”

THE BLIND DATE

He had been watching her for quite some time. Those huge brown eyes attracted him like magnets. They were like a pair of snow white lotuses in a ripple less pond. He did not know whether the example fitted the object of admiration or not. But he was again and again reminded of the picturesque water body, calm and still, mirroring the greenery around, with the lotuses blooming just in the midst of the blue-green waters. He had been staring unblinkingly at her from the moment he made himself comfortable in the Food Court.

He did not know who she was. It was whiling an aimless afternoon in the mall that he felt the pangs of hunger. Locating the eatery, he had ordered to his choice and sat down with a plate of hot chowmein when his eyes fell on her. Two or three tables away she sat motionless like a fairy that had just descended on this Earth in the midst of the crowd and was busy gathering her wits. He chuckled to himself. In a spotless white chikan salwar suit her dupatta trailed down brushing the floor. What else could she be compared with? Such serene beauty! Such placid but haunting expression! She was quite oblivious of her surroundings – the many eyes that rested on her. A few silky brown curls fell waywardly on her smooth forehead. She did not wave them away. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the wall opposite. But there was a hint of a smile in them. They glowed like fireflies in a dark, moonless, night. Now how did the fireflies come to his mind? He just shook his head with a sheepish smile. He was afraid he was becoming poetic.

Poetic and he? He was surprised. He could not believe himself. Where was his mechanical genius, his rationale, his analytical acumen gone? He was an engineer and not a poet. But engineers were not immune to beatific portraits of innocent beauty, were they? Thought he. Engineers also possessed hearts which could sprint, somersault and skip beats when occasions heralded such reactions. His analytical mind was in the fourth gear. She was not glamorous. She was not wild. She was just an angel in repose. There was a timeless quality about her. The way she seemed lost in thought far removed from the hum drum of life. Even inertia could be so fascinating! He could not help but admire.

He let his eyes feast every inch and angle of her body. Now she looked like a flawless mannequin in an idle posture. Her hands lay on her laps. The delicate, slender fingers were an artist’s delight. He wanted to take her hand in his and kiss the tip of each finger till the soft pink of her skin became golden red. He wanted to take her in his arms and make endless promises of lifelong togetherness. He wanted to memorize her name under his breath. What was her name? He wished fervently that he could know her name. No, not only the name but everything about her. He suddenly realized that this was not mere infatuation. This was something more than that.

He could feel her pulse within him. She wanted him to reach out to her. She wanted that he should come closer though she had not signaled to him. There was no outward manifestation of her desires or her repeated but wordless calls to him. But he just knew. There was a strong, undying bond between them. Philosophers spoke about the sublimity of love which took one to higher planes. He did not know whether this was that divine experience or not. But the one thing that he knew and felt for sure was a fatal temptation to touch her very being with exploring fingers. How could anybody affect him so easily and so quickly in such a short time? He had not even spoken to her yet. He nodded in stern resolution. Yes, that was exactly what she wanted him to do. Speak to her. But before that he had to acquaint himself with her. How to go about that?

On an impulse, he snatched a paper napkin from the holder and jotted down a few lines on it. Thank God he always carried a pen. When he finished scribbling he was not sure that those lines were written by him. How could he? But there was no time to judge his poetic abilities now. While he was penning his ardour a short, plump girl had joined the angel. They had got up and were about to leave hand in hand. He had this odd feeling that he missed something. Something which he should have noticed!!!

Never mind that. Now his eyes were reverted to her approaching figure. She walked with a swan like grace. A little haltingly. A little unsure of herself. But there was such rhythm in her every movement. She would surely grace the dance floor of any party.

As she passed by a few tables, gazes followed her with odd expressions. A few lips muttered half whispered comments. She just smiled and walked past them with a quiet resolution which was becoming and dignified at the same time. He could not follow the meanings in those cruel eyes or the whispers of those vitriolic lips. He was only interested in her.

They had to pass his table in order to move towards the exit. As she neared him he faltered. For a few seconds he thought he had lost the moment. Sweat erupted from every pour of his body. There was hollowness in the pit of his stomach. His throat felt dry. His eyes burnt. He did not know what to do. The paper napkin shivered in his hands. It was now or never.

Just then she came over to his table then circumventing it turned towards the door. Before she could move past her dupatta caught on to something. What stroke of luck he exclaimed in his heart of heart. She stopped for a moment. Just a moment! And that moment was priceless for him. As she struggled to free the end of her dupatta he took a step towards her and shoved the napkin into her left palm. Startled she fumbled with her dupatta more. For once he thought she would drop the napkin. But she did not. Then it was all over. The magic of the moment was gone forever. The dupatta was freed by the nimble fingers of her companion and they glided on.

He gritted his teeth. Why did the other girl have to spoil the moment? She would have been there a few more minutes had her friend not helped her. He sat down heavily on the chair. He remembered why he had come there. To eat!!! But the chowmein seemed so tasteless now.

On the other side of the Food Court as the two figures walked out the girl in white smiled to herself opening her palms. She could figure out what that crumpled piece of paper might contain. She nudged her friend without looking at her. Extending her arms in front she said knowingly, “Perhaps this is for you, Renu.” Her companion looked at her questioningly. She felt the question digging her skin. The girl smiled to herself looking straight ahead of her. Without a trace of remorse or pity in her voice she concluded,” He thinks I am perfect. I know I am not.” Hand in hand they crossed the road.

THE WANDERING MAN

वह कौन है जो तेरी गलियों की खाक छानता है
अंधेरों में सिसकियाँ भरता है और उजालों में डूब जाता है
दीवारों पे लिखता है नाम और आंसुओं से मिटाता है
घर का पता पूछो तो बौखला जाता है
लोग पागल करार कर तो दिया है उसे
पर मुझे पता है वह सच तलाशता है


The man wanders in the labyrinthine gullies
Of life kissing dust hovering like the clouds
In dark ditch of mind he finds a quaint solace
And pales in fright as day light seeps through the windows
He has erected walls around him scratching names on them
And rubbing these off with tears
I ask him his whereabouts he looks lost and queer
They say he is a mad man who seeks the truth in the debris of time
I know he is a seeker, has come a long way and shall
Melt away with time nameless, clueless, sieving the truth out of
Ages of illusion
I chase thee unknown in my dreams and poems

A FEW LINES (कुछ पंक्तियाँ )

I walk every step stealthily
Lest I tread on my dreams

दबे दबे से कदम
ख्वाबों पर कहीं पैर न पढ़ जाए !

SUMMER FLOWERS

A scorching summer noon! Our car screeched to a halt at a traffic light. The car AC was ineffective in the boiling heat. Sun’s sizzling rays struck the charcoal bed of the road like lightening and shot back thousand prismatic shards dazzling the eyes. The tinted glass windows were a lame excuse for the heat and the light not to sneak into our car. We sat inside the blast furnace sweating and fuming as the signal took its own sweet time to change.

Suddenly a strip of a figure sprouted from the pavement, jumped sprightly on the road and broke into a dozen somersaults amidst the rows of waiting cars. After completing two rounds of sprints she stopped near an SUV and begged for alms to the driver. The car windows of the big monster (read SUV) were open. I could see the driver engaged in a light conversation with the girl not more than seven or eight years old. Her hour glass like figure and kohl laced eyes could be an envy of any girl her age.

From the wordless gesticulations I could make out that the man behind the steering wheels refused to give her money on the pretext of not having any change. All of a sudden the man threw back his head and laughed. The girl smiled too and headed towards the other cars. I wondered whether it would be correct to hand over a few coins in those soft palms. This was not begging. She was asking payment in lieu of her performance though uninvited. I wished some resourceful entrepreneur or NGO could explore the possibility of utilizing the untapped potentials of such nameless artistes going waste at traffic signals. In this country of teeming billions such unidentified talents were not rare. Perhaps giving them alms might crush their desire to move further forward. Was there really any future of these unknown performers who scalded their limbs on seething asphalts to earn a few coins from an unwilling, impatient audience?

As my mind raced from one thought to the other, from one possibility to the other, from one regret to the other, the traffic lights changed colour and our car swiftly swerved towards the left. I tried to see the summer flower blooming on her own, without the love and tenderness of careworn hands in the midst of thirst ridden, sun baked dunes. But she was busy kissing the fiery roads bent on all fours oblivious of a pair of misty eyes which were riveted towards her. As our car dashed through the traffic I gradually lost sight of her but her burning image stayed with me for a very, very long time reminding of many more summer flowers that I had seen strewn carelessly on the road side by unknown hands who had scripted their fate with charred quills.