Tore bina

When I miss you I hold it against the winds that give me a sudden shiver

the blue skies that flirt with the hope of a sudden shower, 

the laughing child playing at the fountains across the road.

When I miss you I hold it against the old couple with their arms entwined

the tourist pamphlets at the tube station, 

the driver who stops his car and smiles at me while I cross the road.

When I miss you I hold it against the young pair kissing without a worry in the world

the lost lady who stops me to ask for directions,

the homeless guy under the arches asking for some spare change.

When I miss you I hold it against all the times I have laughed in the past

the people we know and the people who know us,

when I miss you I hold it against God Himself.

96 hours after

She had dreamt of this somewhat mundane but extraordinary moment a million times. She could see him from across the road at the bus station and feel something like a knot in her heart. Like as if after aeons she was completely conscious of herself breathing. It was strange. Strangely uncomfortable deciding whether or not to walk up to him, to hold him in her arms, to tell him that it might sound absolutely retarded but she missed him. That each of the past 96 hours she had slowly counted seconds and minutes when she could touch his skin and somehow pass this sense of unrest and turmoil through the fine pores she would feel against her fingers. Odd then that she still had that quickened pulse and fervour as she stood across the road. She wasn't sure if this was excitement or apprehension. The more she stayed away from him, the more she know she couldn't much longer. She wondered how that moment would be. She wondered if their bodies will flow into each other's as naturally as water or if they would share the unsaid magnetism of strangers again.

She waited until anticipation got the better of her. And then she turned and walked away. She had needed this moment to completely comprehend. That she was dead now.

The art of Macro-Economics

I've always been one of those people, who find professors boring and yet hail MBA professors as something of demi-Gods. I agree and whole-heartedly bow to all allegations of bias. But, in my defence I have to mention that some of the most interesting people I've met happen to be MBA professors - and therefore the basis of my theory.

One of the most recent ones is a man I heard a lot about even before I took his first class. Rude, sarcastic and even racist, I was told. And in all honesty, I probably entered the class with more apprehension than my ill-informed gossip sharer had intended to conceive. Yet, even before the first 15 minutes of the class was over, I knew I'd met a man who would change the way I looked at Macro-Economics for the rest of my life. Sarcasm was his strength, and boy did he flaunt it. You couldn't get away with a sub-standard assumption in that class. But I wouldn't agree to the allegations of rudeness and racism - those were plain fabrications. The man taught Macro-Economics like Classical History, with images, stories, assumptions, questions, cynicism and most importantly, a sense of humour.

There were no straight questions and therefore there were no simple answers. In his opinion, the only non-transient theory in the world had to do with culture. The fact that it didn't matter at all. And no wonder then, that his very first assignment had a caveat question thrown in ever-so-lightly on the multi-million dollar effect of culture on national income. And classmates and competitors tripped over each other trying to impress him with a leaner excuse to disregard the much-hated word.

Hillary is over now, and so is the 8-week schedule on the most discussed and argued about module this term. People who hate his cheek and some who idolise him are all feverishly hoping to pass a course they never believed would seem so unfamiliar. Notes exchanged, assignments completed and applause offered. What remains is his fan club.

Of Size and Significance

Every time I would hear of a baby being born there would be all these people romancing the miracle of birth. And quite frankly I found the lines quite corny. I wouldn’t understand why anybody would click fifty pictures of their baby (who by the way looks the same in each one of them) and post them on social networking sites. And I’d categorise it as post-natal hormone overdrive and keep it at that.

But there was something different about this one. I’ve been friends with her for a couple of years now. I knew her when she was single, I knew her the day she wondered what love was, I knew her when she cried in love, I knew her the day she got married, I knew her the day she announced she was pregnant and I think that’s why when I found out a little girl was born, it was like a rush of warmth through my entire body. This baby here wasn’t just another little person, it was blood flesh and emotions of a person I’d met and lived with for years. She isn’t just a beautiful pink chubby angel – she’s my personal little cherub of insight. 

Dedicated in love, soul, spirit and essence to baby Rianna.

Back to dadabari

Flashback is my favourite function of the mind.


Back when I was about 10 or 11, bored of school work and confined within a million extra curricular activities forced to participate in, I would wait year long for the Durga Puja vacations to come through. Kids through our rather widespread family would be off for atleast 10 days and it'd be a sure shot at visiting dadabari. Nestled in a small village called Tofapur, that century old house would hold secret potions for fun that could never be found in our comfortable duplex in the metro. Sleepless nights and weeks of packing would finally end in boarding the overnight Gour Express from Sealdah station, eating out of packed tiffin-boxes and then sleeping off with a beating heart knowing the next time I opened my eyes, it would be the place I waited for, for months. Unless running late, we'd reach the station in the wee hours of the morning, more often than not greeted by a chacha who'd come specially to pick us up and then a drive to dadabari.


As the ritual held, dada would be sitting in his room looking out of the window waiting to greet the families that arrive, one by one. We'd rush into his arms and remember much later to do the salaams to which he would patiently smile. I never could decipher what that smile really meant, calm and loving. Then some muri with gur and off to our family room. On the way I'd steal cheerful glances at the cousins I've been looking for all along, while quietly being directed towards the room to freshen up and change. A minute later, much fresher in a lighter cotton frock, I'd rush back to where they were waiting, eager to exchange stories saved for the past months, instantly holding hands as if scared someone would keep us apart. And there the journey began.


Days and nights passed, but they all lost to the dazzle of the afternoon. One after the other, we'd spend them on the low hanging branches of the guava tree by our family graveyard. That was home. We'd play with wooden dolls, make little sections our private kitchen and cook imaginary meals out of guava leaves while sharing stories from school. But we had to get back before evening, for the folklore had it, spirits rose off the graveyard in the dark. So come sunset, we'd be running back the fastest our feets could carry towards the house. We'd enter from the backdoor to avoid getting caught by our respective fathers, only to get caught by the mothers instead. After some minor slaps on our backs for having been missing all afternoon, we'd be made to stand in a single file to wash our feet at the tubewell. Now this is what we'd hate the most because if you've ever played in a haystack you would know just how finely the hay cuts into your legs while you gleefully jump up and down on it. But that has never been a deterrent from doing it again, what we didnt want to do is, wash our feet. Mothers would however turn a deaf ear to all our pleas and threaten to complain to the fathers, which was fear big enough to drown us. So while screaming and swearing we'd quickly wash our feets to run back to the house and sit by dadi to hear stories of people we never seemed to recognise.


Sometimes if we were lucky, some chacha or the other would take all of cousins on a horse cart ride to the neighbouring village of Arjunpur for some nice rosogollas, shingaras or just plain ice cream. Sometimes we were even luckier when on late mornings they'd take us to the Ganga for a dip, completely oblivious to just how angry our mothers would be when they'd find out! Spending two to three hours splashing water on eachother seemed like the most fun idea Allah had ever devised. Only, the fun would soon turn into serious scolding when we'd return home drenched and coughing. And then there were million of evenings playing silly games with a hoard of the local village girls, most of whom I didnt even know names of.


Those days, that level of excitement, even those cousins now seem so distant. But I'm glad my memory can rebuild those moments every time I meet a trigger relevant enough.


Like I said, flashback is my favourite function of the mind.

Of the wait

Tick tok tick tok tick tok. I make imaginary sounds in my head, eyes fixed at the mute digital clock on my computer. Somewhere in my mind large black numbers appear. 2 and 5. 25 bloody more minutes to go. The head reels under the numbness. Suddenly, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ and the vision takes a long angle shot. Flashback.


8:05 am. You're late. I can almost see my boss lip sync those words from across the wooden partition. Traffic David, traffic. I silently lip back. With not a sound, we somehow communicated it anyway. Never hear the words, just listen to the message. Snap on the computer, fish into Outlook and ZOOP ZOOP ZOOP comes in the emails. Suppliers, clients, colleagues with questions, queries, requests, favours, demands et al. Flow on; sometimes smoothly and sometimes not so smoothly. One after the other; like braiding a nice long plait. I run my fingers through each to smoothen the irregularities, divide them with clean partitions and then let them flow into each other into a pattern that makes the overall product seem like a piece of art. Of course there also lies the utility factor of it all, money like they say. Within every twist and turn of the plait, the beauty is really how we wound each of those to end in the last bit, as free flowing cash.


Blur, blur, blur. A couple more plaits, some food and a couple of forwarded emails that try to make the process of plait creation funny. Sometimes effective, sometimes not. TZK TZK TZK. An average day. Today or maybe yesterday or maybe tomorrow. Not that one is recognisable from the other. Is this maturity? This greyness that surrounds all memory? November 1992 I was wiping my birthday cake off my face, May 2002 I was studying insane nights for A levels, September 2004 I was wiping ice cream off Rashmi’s nose. But July 2007 I was BZZZZZZZZZ. Grey. A dreary lull of time passing unnoticed waiting patiently for its turn to be detected and taken care of. The time is now, the time to bring some colour in.


The head reels under the numbness. Somewhere in my mind a large black number appears. 0. 0 more minutes to go. My head is filled with nail curling silence. I get up to go home. It is time to change now. And it begins again. Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

The post-effect trauma

She had barely had time to blink or register what it was before it hit her hard, square in the middle of her forehead. First she thought it was pain – but with time it was like a bubbling feeling inside. What’s the word? Effervescent, isn’t it? Like dirty yellow Sulphuric acid. Or was it Nitric acid? Wait, wasn’t Nitric acid green? Why couldn’t she remember? There was something wrong with her head - couldn’t think straight. And the loud and constant blaring from the speakers didn’t help either. But somehow instead of even trying to concentrate, she readily gave up and moved on to the next thought quite enjoying this sudden loss of control.


She tried lifting her hand to touch her forehead but flung her arm at a nice little carefree 180 degrees accidentally hitting something metal. Awww – that should’ve hurt. But wait a second – that wasn’t pain. It was a warm numb warm feeling around her palm. Quite like as if she was holding onto a warm cup of coffee. She smiled at the thought. Coffee would be good. The weather did feel a little cold. The thought of warmth passed an unexpected chill down her spine. As a child she believed unusual chills were signs of spirits passing by. Funny, what children believe in; and funnier, how our minds lose the power to be receptive as we grow older and wiser. The thought made her laugh out loud – she didn’t see it coming and it startled her that she laughed at something so factual. And that made her laugh again. It kept happening for a bit – laughing, stopping to think and then laughing again. Until the seemingly unstable mind finally rested on one thought – the story of the spirits. She wondered if the smoke she saw around was really her soul leaving. In reality, it was this fear that had brought the laughter to a deadening silence. After a moment, (or was it really minutes?), of thinking she decided it couldn’t be that – souls don’t smell burnt – and she could definitely smell something burning or something like it, she couldn’t be bothered about the details. But then what was all of this?


“Do you want another shot?”
“Do I what?”
“Another drink – do you want one?”

“A shot – no I don’t. But I do want something else, maybe something like the way I feel now – shaken not stirred.”