Vanilla

She woke up to a bleak morning filled with shrieks of the alarm clock and blares of the traffic outside. It was still early, but the city followed the age old truism of going to bed early and starting the day very early. She made her way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, and brushing her teeth. Housewives are adept at multitasking but somehow time was always running out. Next few hours passed in a daze, getting breakfast ready, the maid had taken the day off which meant dirty dishes at the sink and more clothes which needed washing...her son, was especially lazy and difficult in the mornings and her husband, indifferent, like always. It was only after eleven she could find some time to enjoy her tea, with the newspaper. Though that didn't cheer her up much either, every other day she would catch sight of some depressing incident or other, some one killed, or robbed or molested...everyday it seemed to her that existence was so futile and meaningless, if there couldn't be a philosophy behind this perpetual grind, at least there could be some flavour....every day, day after day, so bland, so vanilla.....

She remembered those early years of marriage and moving into the the rented flat, right in the heart of Calcutta, near Chandni Chowk Metro....the first flush of romance like the bitter sweet chocolate...lately every bit of the aftertaste is gone, not even faded, just gone...she didn't find joy in her son anymore, he was too much of a brat. Though, he wasn't completely to blame, her in-laws pampered him too much and she was too tired to undo the damage...so he grew with the false sense of belief that the world revolved around him and his snotty demands...she smirked thinking that it won't be too long before he would realize the hard truth...She bit her lip, it wasn't healthy to have such terrible thoughts about her own son, her flesh and blood, but she couldn't help blaming him somehow for creating such a rift between them....it must be that, initially believing her son to be her salvation she had poured all her energy into his well being, then suddenly realizing she had lost so much in the bargain...was it worth all the pain, she wondered at times. The bell rang, interrupting her reverie. It was the maid, “Boudi, astey dayri hoye gaylo (Boudi, sorry I got late)...”

After the late noon lull, the frenzy of the morning resumed in full force, school was over but it was her duty to make her son sit down for homework post lunch. Before long, the nosy kakimas and jethimas (aunts) of the apartments next door would come for tea and some mundane chit chat. The same old gossips and how they disapproved of everything and everyone.... “Tui boddo chup chap thakis re aj kal, Arpita, kichu hoyechey (you are too quiet these days)? Sujoy asheyni akhono (When is Sujoy coming)?” one of her “well wishers” asked masking her glee in false concern. She wondered if these people had also led to the chasm that had engulfed her marriage, maybe if she had been less polite, the neighbours wouldn't hound at her doorstep every evening and she would get some time with her husband....

The reasons were many yet none, but the fact was one, she never felt so alone before....She had built a house around the three of them, and now it seemed she was the only one inhabiting it...Sujoy had his own space and her son, lived in his own world. The phone rang, it was her mother...she seemed so querulous, Arpita regretted missing out on her fortnightly visits...but she felt terrified whenever she visited her mother, she was so old and so alone...sometimes Arpita feared she would end up like her, though her father had been dead for long, the lonely days of her mother had started early, she could understand her mother better now, the signs were always there. The bell rang again, it was Sujoy.

“Uff, era abar chole ascheychey (Uff! They are here again!)” he whispered, grabbing her arm roughly, “eder tara tari katao bole dichhi, roj roj er keyton (you must get rid of them, such nuisance everyday)!!” He stormed off to the bedroom. She stared at his retreating form, blinking nervously. She made some excuse for him to them, like she did everyday and then went to the kitchen to fetch more tea. As she went to the bedroom to give him his tea, he caught hold of her arm again, this time he was gentle.

“We need to talk.” He whispered urgently. She was surprised, “Can't it wait? They will be gone soon..” She was about to the put the tray down. He glanced outside, irritated and strangely nervous. She decided to hear him out. “They could hear us you know, the walls are thin, if this is really important, it wouldn't be nice if they heard us...” She sat herself on the bed. He signed, clearly in agony, he knew how much she hated having her emotions bared in front of people, how alike they were in that aspect...But he needed to tell her, so he took a deep breath and spit out some words. At first she couldn't make anything of it...she knew that he was under tremendous pressure at work but his promotion was long due and they were thinking of shifting to a new apartment, their own this time, near Behala. But why would he want her to keep this rented place, and what was he trying to tell her....She stood up suddenly, toppling over the tray by the bedside table, which crashed with a loud clank, shattering the glassware. He was leaving her! For some someone else! She screamed then, the words hitting home, not caring for the thin walls and the vultures outside...she ran into the kitchen, bolting the door.

Sujoy was transfixed, he stared open mouthed at the kitchen door. The kakimas came rushing in, “Ki hoyechey? Ki hoyechey (what's wrong)?” And then there was chaos...everyone of the tenants had assembled in the small room somehow in half an hour...there was so much noise and so many people trying to figure out what needed to be done...Sujoy was in a mess, and his son was traumatized....they wondered if Arpita had hung herself or was she planning to ingest poison or had dramatically slit her throat...the slow evening had turned into a nightmarish ride...with people and faces, and yet the kitchen door was determinedly shut, eerily quiet. An hour passed, the the door remained shut. Sujoy was forced to call the local police station. He twisted his hand in anguish....No amount of knocking, pleading, threatening and banging had proved effective...there was only one way out... “Break it open” The old uncle said, powerful emotions raging in his voice, “Bhenge de re...” The flood gates broke down, people hurled themselves at the door which initially creaked in protest, finally giving in...

There she sat on the floor, unharmed and unmoved, her arms around her knees...she had a strange smile on her lips, the same “Monalisa” smile women have at times....claiming her victory over him.

“Mona lisa, Mona lisa, men have named you,
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile,
Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you?
For that Mona lisa strangeness in your smile?”

-Nat King Cole  

The cure for madness...

Today when walking down the street, I saw a madman.
He had no clothes, he had no shame,
And a head of filthy hair to tame...

What gave him this sense of elation and joy?
This thrill of being free of shame and coy?
People stared at him, wondered at his state...
Laughed at him, then felt sorry and even pitied his fate.

Did he really care, this madmen for our worries and sympathy?
Would he even grace us with a glance?
What had put him in such a trance?
Was it some extreme ecstasy or some terrible loss?
I wondered, watching him from the street, across.

I quite envied him,
What fun would it be to give in to every whim!
Not to care about a thing,
Once could dance around and sing...
Yet watching him from this side of the fence,
I knew I could never leave this pretense...

I could never leave the ways of the madhouse I live in,
And let the madman inside me win.


“I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.” 
-Kahlil Gibrain, The Madman

A touch of reality...

I wake up to a place between a memory and a dream,

a space of what is and might have been.

Worry and regrets mark the way,

often mislead by some dismay....

Right across the room, near the left door,

A soft beam falls on the floor,

The dream or the memory fades slowly,

taking with it the doubts and worry.

I wake up to a morning full of false promises of a new day,

with melting dreams and dismay.

Greyscale

The refrain of a song kept playing in my head...which had nothing to do with my present state of mind. Somehow, the melody wouldn't leave me even if the words did, and it had the same unsettling effect. Maybe this song brought a thought to my mind, memory lost in time.

“Then tonight I had this dream,

so horrible I had to scream,

saw the earth naked like the moon....”

I shivered involuntarily, the wind was cold. I wrapped the muffler around my neck, the chill had penetrated into my core being, there was no respite. I looked over the railings, the hills seemed to rise from the mist, it was beautiful but lonely. Glancing at the watch I realised I was waiting for almost twenty minutes. The evening had come without warning, suffusing the salmon sky with its inkiness. I saw her walking towards me, the street lights were lighting up gradually. She had wrapped herself in a pashmina which had lavenders on it, I reached for my camera. She looked at me nettled, I could not understand her apathy towards my passion. Love won over passion as I took her warm soft palm in my hand.

“What took you so long?” I had to act annoyed as well. She smiled without offering any explanation, instead kissed away any further complaints. As I held her, the world began to melt away.

Memories are like people living inside your head...ghosts which haunt your waking thoughts and dreams. I hated coming back to Darjeeling. I could have avoided the trip, yet I found myself in Siliguri one morning, and from there began the ascent to the queen of hills. It was a bright April morning, just after Easter, a fresh spring day, full of blue sky and white fluffy clouds. I seemed to be so out of place, what cannot be altered must be endured...such crappy advice which doesn't even rhyme. The fact remained that I brought this on myself, I should haven't come back. I remembered the last time I had made this climb to Darjeeling, about twenty years ago, how different yet how same it was....I had finished graduation in Scottish Church with Economics honours, was bitten by the bug of photography and my wealthy heritage provided me with enough support to pursue my passion. One uncle of mine had a leisure cottage up in the hills of Darjeeling, he lived mostly in Calcutta. The situations were ripe for me to exploit my talents and gauge them for the benefit of my future. In fact the person I used to be was quite like this day in April, full of promises of spring. I smiled remembering the first camera I owned, Olympus OM1, first of the OM series, a small light weight 35mm single-lens reflex camera.

I was bursting at the seams with enthusiasm and excitement, now I am a mellow and cynical man of 40 years. It seemed winter had set in early inside me while this day in April mocked me.

The first few days passed slowly, I looked around the mall and the seven spots to find inspiration in cliches. It was disappointing, the learning process was slow. I had been taken in by landscape portraiture, I wanted to capture surreal and divine scenes which would be larger than life, grand and detailed, I loved colours. I would set forth every day to find that image which would assure me of

my gift. The cottage where I was staying was a little away from the main city, red bricked and wooden with only a caretaker for company. A spare room in the basement served as my dark room, and I would spent most of the nights there. Usually I would get up early, and venture out to find the perfect scene, and would be done as evening progressed, I had no interest in the city or people much.

One afternoon, found me in the Nathmulls tea room, I was resting for a while with a comforting cup of tea. The day was misty, shrouded in mysteries and possibilities. I had captured some nice shots, and was looking forward to a quiet night in the basement with my negatives. I looked over the crowd gathered in the small room, I caught sight of a girl sitting by herself. I was quite the gregarious kind, I liked conversations and wasn't shy of company. But her sight filled me with strange awkwardness, maybe it was her beauty. She looked up, somehow feeling the intensity of my gaze which embarrassed

me further. I couldn't help but stare, she had such startling grey eyes.

Recovering myself in time, I walked up to her table.

“Would you mind some company?” She looked at me, in a sweet confused way and smiled. I took that as an affirmation, and sat myself across her.

“You are not from here, are you?” She asked in a soft husky voice.

The Alto stopped with a jerk, a queue of cars, jeeps and trucks lined up the winding road ahead. I wondered why was I so rudely awakened from my reverie.

“What's the problem?” I asked the driver. “Road blocked due to landslide.” He replied grimly. I sighed, wondering how come modernity failed to leave it marks upon this hill side. The same old problems of landslide, incomplete repairs, water crisis, economic and political non-reformation and ignorance. The demands of Gorkhaland began sometime in the '80s culminating in the death of more than 1,200 people. The situation has been volatile ever since. The government fails to bring Darjeeling into the main plan, the pleas for improvement remain unheard and violence overlooked. The queue was breaking up, the car rumbled to life, the journey began again. 

After meeting her, the days passed in a daze. We would walk up the winding roads, climb down tea

estates, sit in benches by the mall, watch people go by their business. We were sitting in a bench by the mall one afternoon,when she cuddled up against me, the rain fell softly around us. It was later that day, we went to her house, a quaint little cottage hanging precariously by the side, overlooking the valley. She lived alone. We went to her room, she opened the window by her bed, the view was breathtaking. I began fiddling with my camera. I felt her lips on my neck, startled I let the camera drop on the bed. I held her close, finding her lips so soft and eager, the moment was intense yet so sweet and tender.

The road block had slowed us down, it took more than three hours to reach Hotel Mayfair. It was a sad and boring day...which had left me nostalgic. My wife would be joining me later this week, our son may or may not accompany her. Life had been rewarding....my leisure and work were one and the same....I had a lovely family, my wife and our 5 year old. Yet on this day of April, I feel haunted and alone.

“Do you see the double rainbow? It took me a whole morning to get that right...and those bright yellow wild flowers, some of them blurred and some in focus...” My voice trailed off when I noticed her eyes so vacant and dull. Puzzled I pulled her over to show her some more of my pictures hanging on the wire, left to dry. None of my images could hold her interest, I was longing to see the those grey eyes shine. Frustrated at last, I screamed at her, “What is it you don't like about them?” she looked at me, eyes mute with agony, “I can't see colours...”

....I wonder had I understood her disease better then, would I have left? A rare visual disorder..... for such people even the word grey won't have any meaning, they see the world from gradations of black to white, somethings appear darker or lighter than the rest. I often revisited those moments when I had an inkling of something not being right with us....how she was so sensitive to bright lights....her vacant stare at times and of course her inability to appreciate my vision. Maybe that was the reason....it became so unbearable to me, whatever I would create would remain in the shades of black and white for her. So when I left her, even though it broke my heart and changed the very person I was, I never looked back. After many years of searching for my forte, I finally found my vision in the cobbled pavements of a busy street, the smile of a child and in the wrinkles of an old man, but in grey scale.