Random Ramblings

I n the realm of emotions, fear has a special position. Lelin dadu’s voice triggered in Neera that same fear; except that it was still covered in suspicion. Before Neera could answer Lelin dadu she was thinking many questions. Why would he want to see her so early (when it was still dark outside) in the morning? Why did his voice sound different? He was probably awake for a while waiting for the alarm to strike. What made him so impatient? Those questions would be answered in a few minutes. Neera opened the door to the stiff figure of dadu, standing slightly crooked, his eyes almost completely hidden inside the circles of wrinkles. “My child” he started. His voice sounded like the dry susurrus of unhealthy branches. But he could speak no more and stopped. Instead he drew a long breath. His eyes were trying to avoid Neera’s. “Dadu, is something wrong? Why don’t you come in and sit?” Neera asked sensing something was wrong. He did not enter through the door. He kept standin...

I n the evening Neera tried calling Jeff twice and each time got disconnected. No lines open perhaps. The village got crappy network but she was glad that there was any. The eager anticipation of hearing Jeff’s voice was replaced by the nervous resentment of not getting him over the phone when she wanted to. By this time Jeff would be usually up and ready for his daily commute to work, unless he had been staying up most of the night. Jealousy and suspicion are time-tested aides of bad relationships, more so when distance separates minds and insecurity misconstrues emotions. “This is the last time” said Neera as she dialed the number again. Perhaps she thought she will be third time lucky. “Hey Nee”, Jeff’s voice on the other side said. “I’ve been dying to talk to you!”. Neera could hardly control herself. “I wanted to tell you about...” her sentence was cut short by Jeff. “Neeeee ! Its real early here and I’m trying to get some sleep. Got back home real late last night...

It surprised me to see how quickly Neera adjusted to the village living. Old memories, like old habits, die hard. They reside somewhere within us, forsaken like childhood toys, forgotten like best friends from kindergarten, forbidden like innocent mistakes made during adolescence. In our attempt to evolve living the same life, refreshed several times, we bury the old under the new; yet, scrape the top just a little and they spill out, like fresh blood under a scarcely healed wound. Today is only the second day of her stay and Neera is already trotting the village path in her Abercrombie attire and Nike shoes. The village school that she remembered from her last visit had transformed completely, from a two-room mud-house into an eight-room brick-and-mortar box-house, complete with real wooden furniture. Right behind the school there used to be the only grocery store of the village, now replaced by a row of tidy shops, twelve in all. Neera saw one of the shopkeepers holding a cell...

Neera is in no way related to Lelin dadu by blood. She happens to be the eldest daughter of late Banshidhar, Lelin dadu’s best friend from childhood. Banshi was a few years younger to Lelin and even as a kid had dreams of making it big in life. That is why he moved to Kolkata after finishing high school, and started his own small business. He married late and all his children were brought up in modern ways, unaccustomed to village life and people. Since Banshidhar passed away ten years ago, Neera hadn’t since returned to the village, and had almost no recollection of Lelin dadu. Neera’s New York is as different from the village of two-lakes, as is Brooklyn Bridge from the makeshift bamboo lake-crossing that threatens to snap if more than two persons or one cow walks over it at a time. Unlike two-lakes, New York has running water and wide roads bereft of potholes. The many heroes of the city, the Lelin dadus , vein through city’s gushing life-forces, but their songs of glory are ov...

Today is Special. That was the first thought that struck him as he lay in his bed, woken up by the 5:00 am arati . Like every morning, the chants of the medieval mantras , the beating of the khols and the tinkling of the manjiraas , had together spun a magical weave into his dreams, even before he himself got out of them and embraced the risen world. The distance between the temple where the morning arati was going on, and his house was about one average-sized pond long, which, for you educated lot means about 50 metres or so. Every morning, he wakes up and slowly walks to the hand-pump in his front-yard, brushes his teeth and gargles loudly, frightening the sparrows gathered around the water source. And then on most days, he solemnly looks around, not particularly at anything. By the time the temple crowd disperses after the arati session, he wanders into the vegetable garden. He checks for new coconuts on the palm tree, young lady’s-fingers hanging upside-down on the rough-ste...