Those Waves That Never Return


This is in response to Sadje’s Weekly Photo Prompts on #Whatdoyousee.

Sometimes I wonder whether I miss who I once was. Perhaps it’s too late to miss. After my father’s early demise I wanted to be brave and face the challenges which life thrust upon me unannounced. I was a young girl straight out of college unprepared and inexperienced.

After my mother passed away two years back I did not get a chance to grieve. In and out of  hospital I have not been able to still figure out where life is taking me in the last leg of my journey. But I know one thing that I don’t want to be brave any longer. I don’t want to woo challenges. I am past my prime. So let me be.

So much has changed that it is not possible to wheel back and be what I was – naive, gullible, innocent, idealistic. Standing by the sea of life staring at the waves of time I wonder whether the waves that roll out and kiss the shore and roll in again are the same which again come back to the shore? They look the same but are they really the same ?

On their watery surface gleam the rays of sun bestowing upon them a bewitching magnetic aura , an enchanting rhythm and a cascading gait. But what about the undercurrents which push them , pull them , urge them ….turn them. Will those currents let them be the same ?

Wise ones say the waves which recede never return. Likewise, the scarred souls can only brood over what they have lost but can never regain what they had once. Perhaps it’s not for their own good that the love, the dreams, the joys they lost return….let them be lost forever.

#Wdys

My Maiden Walk After Being Grounded For Two Weeks


Go on a walk today and share a photo of something that catches your eye.

Today, early in the morning, I just took a ten minute walk right in front of my flat.

The day was cooler and the temperature had also dropped. Sun God was still taking his time to blaze down on mere mortals.

The greenery, as usual, was eye soothing.

The banana plant with its long and wide leaves swayed in the slight breeze that blew.

Our neighbour is an avid gardener who is taking care of the park in front fighting a losing battle with rodents. Yes, we have many rodents in the park – a menace.

The Champa trees were pruned a few months back but the foliage is back.

This was from the neighbour’s front yard.

Clumps of flowers on the Champa tree pleased me.

I had built this shelter for the strays to rest with their puppies or take shelter during rain and winters.

But humans have started using it as a dumping place for trash. I am thinking of demolishing it.

The number of strays has also reduced. Some have migrated to the other side.

In summers I’d place a matka or an earthen pitcher on the top slab for passers by to quench their thirst. With time people’s preference has shifted to water coolers even though they are not cleaned regularly and pose a threat to health and hygiene.

This is Chhin Chhin , one of the strays, whose I am the self appointed godmother.

In peak summer we have to cover the plants with a green breathable net to save the leaves from getting scorched.

This is an old peepal tree in the front park which protects us from the sun in summers but also prevents warmth during winters.

It’s roots are thick and deep. As per local belief peepal trees are never cut or pruned. They grow and expand and sometimes saplings erupt from slim crevices of the buildings posing  danger to the structure.

The park is grass-less because of lack of sunshine

I am never out without my walking shoes.

Ciao!!

May – A Wrap-Up


This month the temperature shot up beyond forty degrees and felt like one or two degrees more, as predicted by IMD (Indian Meteorological Department), however,  intercepted by sudden dust storms, spurts of rain and just a cloudy day or two in between to give us a breather from the scorching heat. 

My month was dominated by the much awaited cataract surgery in the left eye. Usually, cataract surgeries are a breeze these days but not for me. Even the simplest of procedure, in my case, leads to unforeseeable complications. It has always been like that.

This time the pressure of the operated eye shot up (which happens at times) , post surgery, coupled with unusual dryness on the surface of both the eyes. As a result, I had  severe headaches, pain in the operated eye and unclear vision. The headache caused incessant retching for two days, loss of appetite and terrible weakness. I lost four kgs in just two days followed by dizzy spells and blackouts. However, supported by an excellent team of doctors I am better now though follow up treatment and consultation with the doctors are still on and would likely continue for a month or so.

Being highly myopic, optical coordination between the operated eye and the unoperated one is very difficult. The former has zero power while the latter has high power. The solution is to get the other eye operated too soon after this eye heals.

As per the surgeon’s advice I have to use the operated eye as much as possible, watch TV, read, work on laptop, do household chores and lead a normal life. Going out of the house is not totally recommended but I can with protective glasses on. Not that easy without spectacles. I have still not tried watching TV because at a distance the vision is blurred in one eye. At first, the glare prevented me from working on the laptop or mobile but with regular medication I am getting over it though slowly. Working around the house is more on memory and less on vision.

Every experience, good or bad, makes you learn and unlearn. As per the surgeon, myopic people stop using certain eye muscles. He insists that I start using them. I also came to know the causes of unusual dryness in both my eyes, though it’s a generic problem these days with many. The causes are :

Environment

Pollution

Dust

Menopause and consequent

Hormonal changes in women

Use of air-condition

Prolonged screentime

In my case, the gut surgeries I underwent last year could also be an additional cause. The way out is constant lubrication or hydration of the eyes through prescribed eye drops. I also learnt that our eyes are the most to get affected by any other ailment suffered in any other part(s) of the body.

During these sessions with the doctors, I realised that every profession has its dedicated lingo. It was interesting to note how the doctors described my eyes during check ups. According to them my eyes are “quiet” which actually implies that there is no infection, irregularity, inflammation or reaction in the eyes and the lens is in the right place.

Incidentally, I underwent a Minimal Invasive Cataract Surgery or MICS. It’s also a drop-less surgery that is while operating medicines are put inside the eye itself so that in case the patient is unable or unmindful of external  medication the eye is still adequately medicated. The surgeon elaborated that this procedure also takes care of the illiterate patients who being less aware or for any other reasons skip oral medicines after the surgery.

In literature, we wouldn’t use the word quiet with eyes , would we ? Nor in the case of guts which may mean something entirely different. 😊

The hospital I have to visit is at the other end of the city and takes a minimum of one to two hours to reach. It’s a very old one about which I have heard a lot. But it fell short of my expectations on many scores. I am more used to the multi-speciality hospital near home but unfortunately it does not have an Opthalmology Department.

So not much there this month though my respect for visually impaired people have increased thousandfold during this period of my own impairment. Every faculty that God has endowed us with is so precious and we must take care of these at all cost.

Caught!!


It happened before my eye surgery.

I was decluttering my mail box when I came across this message in the spam folder. It was from none other than the R & A W, Intelligence Bureau – I forget the name of the sender with a weird email ID, supposedly in Commissioner rank.

Briefly, the well worded message said that my IP address had been traced to some pornographic site which was tantamount to being a cyber crime. This mail communication should be taken as a legal notice for an illegal act for which I was to appear before the Court within twenty four hours time failing which I might have to face serious consequences.

B-I-L said it was a fake notification. Already filtered into spam I could have ignored it but me being me I contacted my lawyer friend who confirmed B-I-L’s prediction. My friend went on to inform me that one of our common friends had also incidentally received a similar message in the past. In his case, it was drugs found at his residence!!

Long back, my assistant in the office, a hard-core gossip collector, once told me that one of our respectable female colleagues, was in the habit of browsing such notorious sites that too during office hours. Unbelievable though, because the lady under the scanner had a stern demeanor and no nonsense attitude, it made me mull on human’s secret pleasures for some time. Broadly and without being judgmental, I guess everyone should be left to their own aberration unless it’s severely detrimental to society.

However, when my sister laughingly quipped, “So, you are into the dark web!” Once again the curious cat in me had a split second vicious desire of exploring the untrodden virtual world of nefarious activities. Purely out of  ‘academic interest’ you see! 😂

Oh! This evil streak in me for unsolicited adventures which had once prompted me to tread the forbidden underbelly of a city, I knew much less about. Well, I was saved, for once, being accompanied by an erstwhile policeman’s daughter who knew the in and out of the place like the back of her hand. Otherwise, it was rumoured that once you got into that quagmarish hell hole, which even the cops dreaded to venture, you could never come out safe if you didn’t know your way around. Interestingly, the ill-famed China Town was fronted by the famed Laal Bazaar , the Police Headquarters, reputed as the Scotland Yard of  Kolkata.

And of course our intention was as noble as the daylight – visiting a sick office trainee who chose to reside there!!! She, a Khasi girl, was married to a Tibetan ‘outlaw’ with a kid from his first marriage and an old, innocuous but surprisingly agile mother-in-law to add a dash of respectability to the whole arrangement. If I were to rely (which I, at that time, blindly did) on the incredulous inputs available with my dear colleague and bosom buddy,  the redoubtable family ran a shop situated conveniently on the historical Silk Route (sometimes called the Spice Route) – the hub of illicit trade and trafficking in modern times. Having had a glimpse of the husband, in office get-togethers, it was impossible to figure out his age. According to my know-all chum it was the miracle of dubious potions that the Tibetan were adept at brewing for their daily consumption. Yep! My gullible self believed that because after all the fabled Shangri-La was purportedly located somewhere in their mythical land.

Wicked thoughts and long buried memories triggered by a wicked mail!!

But I guess this unwarranted inquisitiveness of mine would one day be my undoing!!!

Brace yourselves 😂😂😂😂

The adventuresome duo

High Fashion Street


This is in response to Rochelle’s Weekly Photo Prompt for Friday Fictioneers.

Word Count: 100

Called the Fashion Boulevard, with its shining glass exterior, the vintage outlet thrived on many myths. The most talked about was that its mannequins dressed themselves up, each night, as per their individual exquisite fashion sense.

Sarah, a budding fashion reporter, armed with her canon and coffee, waited across the street, to see it happen with her own eyes. Past midnight alerted by a faint rustle, she was about to move in closer when something hit her hard at the back.

The myth survived while Sarah succumbed to a nasty head injury.

92 Words

You can read the other stories here.

The Art Of Storytelling


Yuval Noah Harari, in his book, Sapiens, says human evolution sustained on gossip. I would like to substitute the word gossip, which is too colloquial a term, in my view, to storytelling.

Imagine our primitive ancestors – the forager hunter gatherers operating individually or in groups and how they must have shared with other similar groups or individuals about greener pasture, better hunting facilities, sharper hunting weapons and substantial numbers of prey, thereby, ensuring their own subsistence as well as maintaining ecological balance, till scarcity of supply made them more competitive and migratory.

The folklore, tales and fables of agrarian society are very well known to us. The dwellers gathering in the evenings exchanged notes through stories of day to day happenings or perhaps heresays. Simultaneously, when traders followed the spice, silk and other commerce routes for economic activities they brought along stories of their land and culture. They took back, along with them, the stories about ways of life and culture of this land. It is interesting to note that this carriage of inputs, by word of mouth, though seemingly mundane or meagre, must have wielded a significant share of  influence on flourishing trade and commerce between both the lands.

In the mediaeval era, the runners , travelers, traders , poets, bards, courtesans regaled the kings and their trusted men and courtiers with songs, verses and tales of other kings and kingdoms which either led to war or strategic alliances. These stories spilled out of the corridors of the grand palaces and became talking points of the subjects, graduating sometimes into legends and myths and sometimes getting quietly, clinically chronicled in the annals of court historians.

The Industrial Revolution saw a spurt in scientific inventions and discoveries through voyages. Voyagers navigated nautical miles to carry marvelous stories about new lands and people resulting in the establishment of colonies and consolidation of empires. With the invention of printing and publishing stories gained a level higher. Readership became more widespread. Periphery of discussion surrounding a news, article, essay or merely a fictitious account exponentially expanded. Now written words accelerated into being palpably powerful vehicles of educating people and building public opinions. The pen became mightier than the sword – having the ability to revolutionize thinking, reform systems, topple ruling dynasties and classes and reflect the changes in societies for better or for worse.

In our own country we had our indigenous brand of storytellers called kathaks or kathakars who narrated the latest social and political happenings in different parts of the land through dance and dramatics or abhinaya. The classical dance form of kathak took birth from this novel storytelling of kathakars.

During British rule, in feudal Bengal kobir lodai or poets’  fight in verses or versified forms and songs between two or more poets and their supporters was another very aggressive form of storytelling. If I have to draw a parallel, the competition of qawwals in the Northern part of the country comes to mind but both kobir lodai and qawwali competition, were essentially quite apart from each other in content and courtesy of language. Then there were pilgrims, wandering monks and saints, nomads, bauls and sufis.  The Vaishnav kirtaniyas who narrated stories about the mundane miseries of commoners through songs of spiritual awakening.

It will, therefore, not be wrong to conclude that storytelling has all along been an integral part of human existence – society, economy, history and polity. I have just tried to give a very broad outline of the continuum of storytelling through different ages here and the few examples of ingenious means and modes of storytelling that I cite here are merely illustrative.

Closer home, in the joint families, there is always  an aunt, uncle or grandfatherly or grandmotherly figure who are the quintessential storytellers or lullaby singers to quieten the brood of little mischief makers.  In school we have learnt and remembered more in classes wherein teachers, instead of reading out from text books, taught us lessons through visuals and conversational forums. In college and university professors widened our intellectual horizon not only through their lectures but more through vibrant and interactive debates and discourses.

For me all these are various and maybe at times unusual formats of storytelling. Stories have taken the form of initiatives. They have been instruments of instigation too. They have been gateways of new ideas. Contrarily, they have also challenged us to discard the obsolete and effete practices and rituals. But nonetheless, in the final analysis, these have always been very important mediums of communication and transmission of technology, information and knowledge and also a delightful source of entertainment.

I have always been very fond of stories. I have, ever since childhood, loved to wander in the imaginary world of fiction. It has been, now I realise, my way of coping with personal upheavals as well. From listening to narrating stories, the transition has been quite automatic and seamless. As a child, when I used to embark on telling a story , everyone scooted off because my stories never had an end… They just went on and on and on. Then came the period when I would watch a movie, read a book or listen to a play on radio and narrate the story in my fanciful, evocative way to my friends and class mates who became my rapt audience.

I guess the same urge brought me to the digital platform. The only difference is now I collect stories from my myriad day to day experiences and memories. At the same time when I read other posts I come to know about other storytellers’ lives, struggles, aspirations and thoughts transcending geographical borders. In doing so I become a part of them and they become a part of me.

Some like to listen to stories and some like to narrate them. But I believe it’s important to encourage each and everyone to tell their stories in their own way, specifically, children because the process of storytelling nurtures creativity and the art of expression and also helps reach  the crux of our own emotions and feelings. It is through stories that we reach each other’s minds, faculties, perspectives, morals and values also and create a zone of intersection – an area of mutual influence and inspiration.

Authors and writers say to tell or write a story you have to keep on reading  too. There are many organisations and institutions who are working towards this goal of involving children to read, listen and tell stories even and more so in this digital age. I have just now come to know of one such wonderful endeavour through ChetnazPage. It’s one enormous project which I would very much like to give my support to by talking and spreading awareness about it.

Hope the community of storytellers on this platform are symbiotically benefitted by reading and telling stories. That is why we all are here, aren’t we? So let’s continue to explore within and without and become part of each other’s stories.

Cheerio!!

Postscript: This is my first post after the eye operation. I still have issues which will take almost a month to be sorted. This post got mainly triggered by Chetna’s post. I have started reading the posts of my co-bloggers too but taking it slow. I hope to read you all gradually in the coming days. Please bear with me.

Handicapped ! But Still…


What’s a word or phrase that annoys you?

At last I got my left eye operated for the cataract. The surgery took less than ten minutes. But it was not smooth sailing thereafter. I was taken ill , violently ill, and for two days I couldn’t get up from bed or eat anything.

From the third day I managed to get up and be about but weak, very weak. The surgeon had told me to use the operated eye as much as possible. However, being highly myopic it’s not easy because in the left eye , as of now, I have zero and in the right eye very high power, which is quite handicapping as optical coordination is difficult. And oh! I can’t use specs!!!.

I am not supposed to go out for a week. Navigating inside the house is like doing things anew. Surprisingly, the handicap has made me more careful and mindful of things though slow. I am trying my best to cope. Sorry for not being able to read your posts and reply to your comments guys but soon, I hope, I shall be.

In spite of all the constraints. I wouldn’t like to be called a bechaari or the poor thing. I hate that word which is quite frequently used in our society for people who are doing their level best to get over a situation. Kind of disparaging…taking pity on somebody. Who wants pity? Empathy…yes…

I know this is going to take some time, rather, a long time but once I am in it I guess there’s no looking back. Have to wade through this rough patch…somehow.

And please , no bechaari. It’s being brave and not being bechaari. Right ???

Anxious By Birth


My elder sister once gave me a T Shirt on which was embossed “Anxious By Birth”. She said it reminded her of me. I still wear that T Shirt though I don’t quite like the idea of the entire world knowing my weakness.

Yes, if anybody loves to worry or be anxious it’s me. From the littlest to the biggest any cause suffices. The temperature is rising –  what will happen to my plants? Monsoon is delayed this year – what if there is a short supply of water? I must make provision for additional storage  just to preempt that imaginary emergency. The petrol price is on the rise  – let’s top up the car (full tank) even though there are no proposed long road travels.

The immediate outcome of worry is unnecessary proactiveness of which my family is quite exhausted. Their perennial complaint : “You overthink about everything”. “Let’s cross the bridge when we get there” is my sister’s constant reminder. What if we miss the bridge somehow… let’s be prepared beforehand – my reaction!!

If by any chance there is no imminent concern knocking at the door then NASA is there to slip into the role of stress giver: A comet darting towards us with an extraordinary light year speed poses the danger of head long crashing into mother earth. Eeeekkkk! Even if it is in the year 2068 by which time I may be zooming way past the stratosphere in my astral avatar. So what ? I’m worried about the next generation.

Google is my greatest enemy which manages to throw pop ups of all forms of upcoming disasters for which I am the only soul alive to find a solution to survive. Sometimes, to my greatest astonishment, the situation gets resolved by itself without my considered intervention. How come? Am I too late to cogitate over the issue from all possible angles and embark upon a suitable crusade?

Perhaps it’s the pantheon of Gods and Goddesses whom I have tasked heavily on a day to day basis to rise up in arms and resolve whenever there is trouble brewing. Nonetheless I am a little dissatisfied because the “I have done it” part is erased from the resolution.

Elders say stay tuned with the Divine in times of need. Getting anxious will not shorten the period of crisis. But I have to be up and about to battle against fate and in most times against “concocted devilry” – “the universe is conspiring against me yet I survive” mission is perpetual.

So coming back to the T Shirt, my congenital courtship with counterproductive anxiety continues in full swing intercepted by ‘lapses’ of  temporary surrender to the Almighty in between.

The day the submission will be absolute I guess I will be cured of the endless combative syndrome.

Till then…

How To Read A Book


What’s a book that completely surprised you?

Books always surprise me. More when I am re-reading them. In different phases of life a book appeals differently because over time we evolve. So does our thought process and what we need and extract from a book. I believe when I am ready for a book it comes to me. Also what I gather from a book is how I perceive or read the book.

Many times it so happens that a book lies unread on the shelf. The urge to read it does not happen. Then one fine day I just take it out and read it in one breath. That itself surprises me. Then there are a few books which I have begun but, try as much as I may, I have not been able to finish them. Life Beyond Death by Swami Abhedananda is one such book – I have been plagued by terrible nightmares whenever I have started reading it. It’s not scary but is based on lived experiences and experiments.  However, the book lies unread till now.

Recently I have discovered an app of a renowned Bengali Publication House which is a storehouse of books, magazines, news articles, podcasts etc. I got to read Raaj Kahini by Abanindranath Tagore in ebook form on this app once again. This is a book which I have read innumerable times in my childhood. This is also the book which piqued my interest about the history of Rajasthan – it’s saga, myths and significance. 

How best to recreate childhood if not by reading those books which have been my favourites in the formative years? In fact, call it telepathy, I have been wanting to re-read this very book for quite some time now.  A collection of short stories with original sketches by the author, fondly called Abon Thakur, it traces the dynastic origin of the Ranas of Mewar, the bloodbaths of Chittorgarh, the self-immolation by thousands of palace ladies  led by Rani Padmini, the devotion of Meera Bai and many more royal fables and lores. Reading the book after almost five decades I was surprised to find myself becoming a kid again.

Inspired by my elder sister, who is attending zoom classes on learning the Gita, I have too started reading the sacred text – Shrimad Bhagwat Gita. Though I have read parts of it in a scattered kind of way and always intended to give it a serious reading, honestly, it was not on my agenda this year. But as I said books happen when the time is right. Again I am amazed how I am instantly attracted to its deeply meaningful shlokas. Gita is not a book but a way of living. It is said that if you just randomly open a page and read it, the book gives you just what you are looking for.

At present, bogged down by many things, I am again mystified by the amount of peace a few paragraphs of the holy tome gives me. Like any other religious scriptures, Gita has to be read many times over, to accurately understand and assimilate the core teachings. It’s a path finder too. I don’t know whether I am meant to follow the path that it indicates. Perhaps yes and perhaps no – only time will tell. But one thing is for sure the book has really found me. Now, isn’t that surprising ?

Trivia : Abanindranath Tagore or Abon Thakur, as he is fondly referred to, is World Poet Rabindranath Tagore’s nephew. He is the founder of Bengal School of Art and a noted Children’s writer.

The Keyhole


This is in response to Rochelle’s Weekly Photo Prompt for Friday Fictioneers.

Word Count: 100

I was always inquisitive about that gap in the wall at the back of the garden. Just like a keyhole.

Cousin said it had hidden treasures.

Granny said a dragon-like creature guarded it day and night.

Mother said, ” Don’t go investigating. You may get bitten by a deadly insect “

The other night I heard an odd hissing sound emanating from there.

Next morning a blood smudged handkerchief was found near it.

But that fateful afternoon when the police arrived father looked thoroughly disturbed.

Why hide a bag of powdered chalk in there ?

It was meant for more exciting stuff.

***

100 Words

You can read the other stories here.