L’appel du vide (call of the void)

She could spend most of her days by the window, staring at the snow-capped peaks of Kanchenjunga, feeling a sense of happy alienation from everyone and everything. A moment lost in time, a moment when she could just be herself…but this morning, she felt so blue, the wind whispered sending a shudder down her spine. She wrapped the shawl tight around her shoulder, trying to keep the warmth in and to keep the sadness at bay. Often on a beautiful morning when the sky is clear and blue, and the wind caresses the pine trees, and the clouds float like puffs of cream, she felt the old sadness again, tugging at her heart. She had been living in a small cottage by the edge of the road leading to Ghoom for about a year now. Giving up her worldly ties was the easiest thing she could do and she didn’t regret doing any of that! When she learnt she was terminally ill and it was a matter of few years, she knew she had to do what she wanted to do for so long. Leaving everything, the hustle bustle of Calcutta and the busy life of a retired schoolteacher and a grandmother, it had been too long since she followed her whim and fancy…first there was her husband to worry about, then the children and the job, her family, his family, their incessant demands…. sometimes she wished to get away from it all and finally she could at the end of her journey! Life is funny like that. One realizes at the end of the fraying rope that this is it, and to make the best of it all! People thought it was crazy when she explained how she would like to spend the last few of her functional days, her son was flabbergasted and her daughter-in-law smirked a little, her grand kids were too young to understand and maybe they thought they could come over for holidays! Oh silly silly children! She would be going for a permanent vacation soon, but she didn’t really care.  “Second verse same as the first” the Beatles sang and she listened resting her palms on her cheeks and feeling a deep sense of melancholia.

Her silence was broken by a loud grunt and hum of a commotion outside. She forced herself from the favourite spot and went towards the door. A small crowd had gathered surrounding a car, a blue Maruti Swift, a tire had burst and stalled it. She saw him coming out of the car; the crowd had parted in a way that she could look at him. In a moment of despair and hope she looked at him, it was him! He had aged, salt and pepper hair and a fuller face, wrinkled but genial, it was him! She thought of going back inside her safe haven and to shut the door on him, but he saw her too. Saying something gruff to the driver about fixing the tire, he slowly walked towards her. Did he recognize her? After all these years, she felt elated and sad at the same time. Seeing him made her ache in places she had forgotten existed, a film of tears was blurring her vision, she swiftly wiped them away, she still felt uncomfortable expressing herself. After everything she had been through she didn’t expected to be surprised by anything at all, but life does that at times, punches you in the guts and lifts you to the stars! What could they say to each other? She wondered her hands trembling at she clutched at her skirt.

            He was hoping to reach the hotel by noon. The road was steep and winding, he felt a little car sick, the little car grunted as it climbed up the hills.  He had a meeting with a local tea estate manager the next day and wanted to enjoy some sight seeing before.  On one of the hairpin loop near Ghoom, a small town before his final destination, Darjeeling, the car jerked suddenly nearly falling into the ravine. The driver was a local man with nerves of steel it seemed, he swerved the car to safety, missing the edge by an inch. The car had stopped; smoke coming from the engine, one of the tires had burst. His heart was pounding now, beating hot blood to his face and neck. It was a delayed reaction to the near fatal crash. He made his way out of the backseat, his knees trembling, his whole body shaking. The driver was putting some water on his face his forehead was cut. A crowd had gathered. His head was dizzy and walking in a daze. At the far left of the road, a little cottage nestled at the side of the hill. He found himself looking at it’s front door, white curtains with blue flowers fluttering in the wind, his eyes rested on a woman standing at the entrance. For a moment it seemed he must have been hallucinating. Was it really her? His vision cleared and he saw her in the bright April sun, her face old and lined but still beautiful. His legs gave way and he fell down on his back. People crowded around him, humming words and supporting him on his feet. He gently brushed the hands away, mumbling thanks. His feet seemed to be made of rubber, wobbly and weak. He slowly walked to her. She kept looking at him, curtains billowing around her, sunlight streaking through her grey hair.

            He held her hand, smiling at her innocence. They were 17 and in love, life couldn’t have been sweeter. She pursed her lips and asked again, “why do you love me?”

“Have you ever stood near a precipice and felt the call of the void?”

 She looked at him puzzled; he tried to explain himself,

“ Sometimes you just can’t help yourself. It’s like gravity…”

Nostalgia

What is so romantic about Paris? The only other city I would really like to see in the rains…I have a love-hate relationship with the rains and with my city, Calcutta…although I have seen my fair share of rain in Bombay, it was somehow baffling and exhilarating …torrential and yes definitely baffling…but in Calcutta (and I have heard also in Bombay) when it rains (and oh it pours!) the roads are flooded, traffic stops and in a way the city stops…but nothing beats the cool breeze of an early April or late June shower and the smell of wet earth (which is related to some bacteria)…but I am going off topic, what is it about Paris or Cairo or Calcutta in the rains (even without the rains)…I was watching this movie called “Midnight in Paris” and the film starts with a few sweeping shots of the city and I felt so thrilled, remembering some of the streets I had walked in and wishing (imagining) walking in some of the others, little bistros, splashing puddles with flashing street lights and of course cobbled roads! I mean what’s not to love? And there was something else they spoke of in the movie, the term is “nostalgia” related specifically to some old time…the protagonist in the movie wants to live in Paris in 1920s and in the rains…I found that absolutely thrilling! Then my enthusiasm was dimmed a bit when his not so nice “friends” pointed out that people who have such longing for the past they do so since they are unable to cope with the pain and the ugliness of the present…I couldn’t agree more…I mean why do we watch movies, read novels and why do we travel…we do so to escape sometimes from the pressing needs and demands of the present…The present is not such a “gift” as people would like to sell you to, things like nothing like the present and today is a gift that’s why it’s called a present…well hard luck returning the “gift”…what’s wrong with nostalgia…I often visit my memories and sometimes imagine the future…even marvelous trips….sipping wine and reading a book by a road side bistro in Paris…walking through a bustling bazar in Cairo and petting a cat…watching the sand grains slip through my fingers in the desert and looking at the pyramids in awe…I mean why not? Sometimes I don’t want to look at bills that need to be paid, dishes that need washing, and numerous everyday chores that need to be done…I am a romantic and I often live in memories, but isn’t that a crime we all are guilty of to a certain extent?

“Often I dream of far away streets and cats playing peek-a-boo,

Corners of a dusty bookshelf dappled with sunshine…

And a misty morning in June…

Sometimes I wish I could live in a far away cottage,

Just beside the creek, and could hear the water lapping,

Or just dancing in the moonshine by the pool!

And then I wake up to tomorrow and the days pass away,

I slip in and out of my day dreams, trying to live through the way!”

Blink and miss

I was obsessed with faces those days, faces that look similar yet different, faces that stood out in a crowd. In fact I would see faces everywhere, in abstract things like shadows behind the door, clouds in a clear blue sky or water spreading on the floor.  I would end up quite often following a person with an interesting face; it was not sexual but just plain curiosity. I was to some extent influenced by a film, in which the protagonist tails people around in London, but he has a purpose, he wanted to know more about them, write about them. I, on the other hand, had no purpose, but pure impulse. I would aimlessly follow people around the city if I liked their face or their expression. That didn't imply the face would have to be pretty; ugly faces were as fascinating to me, or someone with a distinctive scowl of disdain.... I liked faces that looked particularly unhappy their own selves or with life in general, I found them to be funny! I was struck by this idea that some faces could be completely identical even if the people belonging to those faces were not related...this idea was put to test once when a friend of mine suggested she could tell identical twins of our class in college apart and I was completely floored, I mean I could never discern them and she said initially it was difficulty but afterwards she could do so by simple features (one of them was supposedly a bit on the plump side compared to the other and had a longer face, very subtle but apparent difference according to my wise old friend!). I would often find myself wandering about in the streets, tired, hot and a little confused. My wild goose chase ended on a terribly hot day in May, and ended quite abruptly.

There used to be a roadside tea-stall, just by a used book store. I would often frequent both the places, spending some time in the bookstore, browsing through the selves and then enjoy a steaming cup of sickly sweet tea from the tea stall. Of course, I knew the owner of both the joints very well and they in turn could gauge my mood, and would either ignore me or engage me in some trite conversation sharing some insight about humanity in general and gossips involving specific people. The kettle was blackened with years of soot and dirt, even the walls of the little stall were stained with soot, but I felt safe there surrounded by familiarity and routine. On that day surrounded by this mundane familiarity, I saw him, standing across the road, smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from the thin mouth. I wouldn't have given this ordinary man, shabbily clad in well-worn clothes , wrapped in smoke another glance but there was something about his face...and it struck me, he had a singular resemblance to my face! I nearly dropped my tea, my hands trembling as I rubbed my lips. The traffic light beamed green; a rush of cars, buses and bikes rushed passed me as I stood staring. When the traffic had slowed down, he was still standing; he took his time with the cigarette and finally stubbed the light out with his left foot. I was sure now, it wasn't a superficial resemblance, he simply looked exactly like me. I would often wonder if people actually knew how they really looked like, I mean we would go by other people's perception about our own looks and a mirror reversed version was the only reference we had of our own face, would one know how they actually looked like, objectively? I knew now then in that moment and was terrified, the way he tilted his face while dragging on the smoke, his eyes squinting, his fingers long and gnarly, oh how I knew!....my face, my posture, every nuance of my body language on a stranger...it was the most mind numbing sensation I had ever felt as long as I can remember. He started to cross the road and walk towards me, I had to act now; I willed my limbs out of atrophy and turned my back to him. I could still see him walking nimbly towards me from his dim reflection on the glass door of the bookshop. He walked right into the bookstore, our shoulders brushed as he walked past me. I waited for a few seconds and followed him inside. He was looking casually over the bookshelves, his eyes casually passing over the books. Did I look so gaunt and serious? The lines in my face were stark, when did I get so old? My hands wandered over my face running over my features, making sure they were still in place.  It seemed he had enough of the place and was deciding on leaving. It was strange that the shopkeeper couldn't see the resemblance or maybe for him in spite of all the insipid yet intimate conversations we shared I was just another face in the crowd. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..." and then I followed him into the street, in the crowd...

“What happened then? Did find him? Did you speak to him?” Anita asked eagerly. I gulped down the whiskey in one quick motion and shook my head slowly. “I lost him that day in the crowd, but the incident still haunts me...what did it mean? Was it just a figment of my imagination?” I laughed, glad that my idiosyncrasies didn't turn her off, this pretty lady seemed genuinely interested in me. It was strange that I remembered this story from my youth that too after more than a decade of it, I smiled wistfully. Maybe the wounds of my broken marriage followed by the ugly divorce were finally healing, with time I lost a great deal of my strangeness and my fancies...struggling to fit in with the world, playing the role of a corporate slave and a disgruntled family man, I had quite forgotten my strange ways, the old days.... The rest of the evening passed in a blur, nothing memorable occurred and I conveniently forgot to take her number, Anita (the wild big haired Anita with scarlet lips!) my fix-up, courtesy of my well-meaning friends of course...

The next was a Sunday; I slept late and had an usually large breakfast. I had nothing to look forward to, no expectations and no worries to let any one down. I thought of going to the bookstore especially after yesterday, the old used bookstore that had held its own through the test of time. Ten years is not such a long time yet so many things have changed. I walked briskly down the street, the flow of traffic had increased in the city with time, everyone owned a car and everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere or to get away from something. I was almost there, the tea-stall was no longer there but the soot stained walls remained and so did the bookshop a little worn for wear but still there, I smiled feeling at peace. The light was still green and the flow of traffic didn't show any signs of slowing, I thought of finishing my cigarette first before crossing, I wrapped myself in smoke and oblivion. A chill ran round down my spine, feeling someone's eyes on me I looked across the street, there was no one I knew. A sudden movement caught my eye; a young man quickly swiveled around turning his back to me. I paid no heed to the strange thin man and crossed the street to walk inside the store.  The shop had quietly aged and I didn't know the owner any more, I smiled remembering the bland conversations we had for the sake of having something to talk to. I glanced around the bookshelves; my habit of reading had been forsaken for the sake of running about in the rat race my life had become lately. I still felt someone watching me; I looked around hoping to catch a familiar face. I almost did see someone peering at me through the gaps of the books in the last row. I felt uneasy and uncomfortable, deciding on leaving. As I walked outside, losing myself in the crowd I had this eerie feeling of déjà vu, I turned to look again...and some how in a blink and miss moment, in the sea of strange faces, I saw a face that looked familiar, a young confused face with thin lips, his eyes searching for something...it looked like my own face.

How Blue is my Sapphire

"One of his tears fell in my mouth, where it became a blue sapphire, source of strength, source of strength and eternal hope." - Anita Diamant

“All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am... at least for the most part. I can still remember moving into a new house with my husband as if that were yesterday but it about twenty years ago. Now I have moved again after his death, to a new place and a new life. The neighbourhood seemed promising and my flat was on the ground floor, so I wouldn’t have to punish my knees climbing stairs everyday. I was apprehensive about staying alone but I assured myself that things would work out; after all my family and friends were a phone or Skype call away, I would be fine. Besides, I didn’t want to bother people unnecessarily. The biggest hurdle I thought I would face is killing time and trying to adjust to a much slower pace of life at a town, having lived most of my life in a city. Most of my old stuff and furniture had already moved in, now it was my turn to move in physically and emotionally to this new house. I remember hesitating a little on the day of moving in, pausing a moment at the door; the nameplate had only one name, “Ms. Kakoli Das”.

The first few days were a blur, trying to form a routine of everyday life, getting to know the market place, the bus timings and of course the drudge of cooking, cleaning and working…sometimes it would seem days were longer but shorter somehow when they blended into a long continuous today…I finished reading book after book every month, spending rest of the free time on the computer, or walking around the neighbourhood…sometimes feeling a sense of alienation from reality and the people around me…what was I doing? I have started to talk to myself quite loudly these days, not bothering to do it quietly in my mind anymore, anyway who would hear me, who would care? Staying alone one stops caring about some doors but caring a bit more about few others…Slowly I got used to the solitude, caring less about company, finding solace in my own thoughts…but the flip side is that I dwell more and more on the past these days, some memories come rising up from somewhere deep in my inner being, I remember things I never thought I noticed before…” She smiled, ending her monologue with no definite ending.

“But you didn’t really answer my question?” I said feeling a little annoyed. It didn’t seem right to be nettled with such a sweet old lady, but I felt dissatisfied, almost frustrated.

“It is the best one I can give you.” She said with an air of defeat. She finished her coffee and started to leave, without so much of a good-bye. I was left alone, again, with my thoughts. Maybe she was right; a real conversation albeit dissatisfying is any day better than small talk, isn’t it? I signaled the waiter for another coffee. Maybe I had framed the question wrong, I waited for someone else to join me as I sat alone wrapped in smoke from my cigarette and coffee.  An hour passed by, I was still sitting alone, conversations from the tables nearby came floating by along with some background noises from the street, awkward honking from rickshaws, occasional sounds of traffic…I could feel the beginning of a headache, throbbing at my temples, time to go…I was about to give up on my quest, when the couple walked in. The man had an irritated look, and the girl seemed lost. The coffee house was unusually busy for a Saturday afternoon, there were no tables free, and serendipitously the only table they could share was mine. I motioned the waiter for yet another coffee and sat up straight as they walked uncertainly towards me. I smiled at them reassuringly. As they came up to me, the guy addressed me,

“Would you mind if we shared table, the rest of the place is occupied” He spoke in a soothing baritone, I liked him already, the female seemed jittery, I couldn’t really place her, she looked like a nervous little bird.

“I would love some company, please do” I gestured coming off as little too friendly. Maybe I should try to curb my enthusiasm. He smiled again; a little uncertain this time but they seated themselves across me.

“I am Anjan,” I said. They introduced themselves as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Sen, without offering any first names, I was a little surprised but decided to let it go, I still had my question to ask them. I waited patiently for them to get comfortable, Mr. Sen seemed very hungry as he gobbled on the omelet and toast, and Mrs. Sen grew more uncomfortable by the minute. I was feeling the strain as well, they were not speaking to each even, was it my presence that hindered their flow of conversation? Or maybe they didn’t speak much, their partnership flawed, ill matched somehow? I had to break the ice; I coughed a little too deliberately and cleared my throat…

“Would you mind if I asked you a question?” I said, hesitating a little. Mrs. Sen looked startled, comical even! The husband was still busy eating, but he did look up, glancing at me with a quizzical expression.

“I don’t know, depends on the question”, he sounded gruff. What was their deal? I wondered but I had to ask what I had to ask.

“How much of a role does the past play in your life? Do you dwell in the past or you don’t really care?” I rushed through it, realizing I had their full un-divided attention, yet maybe some explanation was in order, since they looked as if I had asked the most out of context, absurd question one can ask on a busy Saturday afternoon, that too in a coffee house…

“Actually I am trying to develop characters for my story and I was thinking of writing about memories, how much of the memories that we have are our own, you know, since memory is dynamic and can change over the years, in fact sometimes the memory becomes quite different from the real incident….” I trailed off noticing the look of disdain on the husband’s face. The wife looked even more petrified, glancing nervously at her husband’s face and mine. The man finally decided to grace me with an answer.

“I have no use for the past nor your silly questions. Can a man not enjoy his coffee in peace without being hounded by lunatic these days, really!” He looked absolutely furious.

I was about to explain my case further, when the wife began to speak, rather querulous at first, but her voice becoming clearer as she went on, “If I may I could try answering your question. I am a simple girl, with not much ambition or desire. I just want to live my life in peace. Growing up in a village with my four brothers, I learnt how to keep out of their way and maintain my sense of peace and dignity. My parents preferred them to me, having brought up a daughter they only wished to get rid of me as soon as possible. I was married quite early and came to live in this town about five years ago.” She stopped for a while, smiling wistfully, “and I thought I had escaped my surroundings, my past and I could make a new start, but I was wrong. Things remained the same; I was still invisible, trying to maintain a sense of dignity and quiet. I was trying to avoid confrontation at all costs. I have not escaped my past, my past is my present.” As she went on talking, I couldn’t help but notice the change in her husband’s demeanor, from being self assured and almost arrogant, he went to bewildered and eventually deflated.

“I am glad you asked me this question, because I had been struggling with this thought ever since, why couldn’t I escape my past? Now I know why…” She looked at Mr. Sen.

“I am not happy, if things don’t change I don’t think I can go on…” Some of her earlier nervousness returned but she went on, “I am sorry for bringing this up now and here, but I had to tell you…” Her eyes filled with tears as she finished her monologue.  I knew I had to spare them some private moments to discuss this revelation about their relationship. I felt awkward that I had to witness such private and raw emotions at such close quarters, but I felt a lot more satisfied now. I stood up, excused myself, went to settle my bill at the counter and left. It was nearly evening; the day had ended with a burst of colours. As I walked back to my flat, watching the sky change from rose pink to lavender and finally to indigo, I reflected on my past. Thinking about my family, my parents and my friends, and the person I am now…. how much I had changed, or did I change…how things change and yet remain the same.

True Self

I woke up to the persistent rings of the alarm clock on the bedside table, fragments of a distant dream sticking to my head. It was just after six on a groggy Sunday morning. I cursed to myself and got up from bed. A cup of coffee ought to set things right, was I trying to pacify myself? It had been over five years now, I was still stuck with the same column, still waiting for some thing that would either make or break my literary career, geting it over with instead of lingering in oblivion. I worked for The Times, a decent news paper where I make a more or less decent living , at the cost of hurting my idealism and my dream of writing fiction someday. My column talks about new and promising writers, their work and aspirations. Everytime, I write about them, I tell myself I'll quit and I'll write my own novel one of these days. Nothing has changed since I first started writing the column. I was supposed to meet a “promising” writer today, I hated that word, what could it mean? Promising indeed...selling lies, making money for the publishing house, making people's lives better and some other crap. There was nothing wrong with that, just that I hadn't found my story yet, it's like you have a voice but have nothing to say, so it was natural for me to feel resentful.

After putting the kettle on, I walked out to the verandah to take a look outside. The apartment belonged to my uncle, sejokaku, who now lived in the States with his son. I was sort of taking care of his house, of course saving a lot on rent in the process. How could a struggling writer afford a swanky two bedroomed flat in old ballygunge road. I rather liked the place, lot of open spaces, wide rooms and a huge verandah overlooking the lane. A large gulmohar tree hid the verandah from outsiders, but one could see the road below through the sinewy branches. It seemed as if a soft cocoon hid the apartment from the strife of the outside world. I glanced at the old wall clock in the sitting room, it was quarter to seven. I had to hurry, after weeks and months of mails and phone calls, I had finally managed to get through to A. He was much of a recluse. To think a writer attaining critical and popular adulation at the same time, yet he seemed more and more withdrawn after each of his success...it would seem almost as if he was hiding from something or someone....I laughed at my train of thought, an eccentric writer albeit a famous and “promising” one, becoming a part of a greater mystery would be too much to handle on such a drowsy Sunday morning, won't it?

I burnt my tongue, the coffee was scalding hot. I decided to take a bus to Rashbehari and walk the rest of the way to A's house in Southern Avenue. The streets were nearly deserted, very few people and vehicles could be seen. A blue blurr appeared in front of me, I boarded the bus, finding a seat by the window. It would be wise to think about his work on the way, to collect my thoughts and ponder on the queries I might have, I thought to myself. A was a clerk at the General Post Office Kolkata,

he had a tedious 5 to 9 job and lived a life of anonymity. He started on his first book when he was two years away from retirement, admist a lot of ridicule and scepticism he went on to publish his book using his life's savings. From then there was no looking back, prominant publishing houses want him now yet he seemed to be unaffected, untouched by his fame. He still lives in a dusty dilapidated house which home for his ancestors as well. Why wouldn't he lead if not a lavish, a better lifestyle, why not shift to a better place or fix his old house, why wouldn't he take any interest in who publishes his books, the royalities he has earned or the literay awards he has won....such questions were beyond speculation....and would make me think more deeply about the silly consipiracy, rather the persecution theory!! Of all the crappy things in this world, why was I stuck with this thought?

The bus stopped with a jolt, I had reached my destination. I paid for the ticket and landed myself on the road. As I had expected , the Rashbehari crossing was much less crowded. I walked through a daze of thoughts, trying to keep track of the way. It was a pleasantly cold morning, Southern Avenue was shrouded in trees, an interesting interplay of shadow and light could be seen on the wide pavement. I was feeling quietly happy somehow, given my usual sour morning mood. The house came into view, it was like a rude shock shattering the quietude of the place. Gnarled branches of some died out trees hugging the structure, as if they let go, the house might just float away. It was quite a disturbing sight, effecting a part of me I couldn't quite reach. I wasn't sure of what I should next, there was a bell which I could ring but I was feeling strangely apprehensive. I was spared of the ordeal, an old man opened the door. He looked tired and worn, he gave me a piercing look, then nodded in understanding. Apparently he knew why I was there without a word from me. The strangeness of the situation was making me more uneasy every moment. He lead me through a staircase which lead to a passage, finally to a small room which seemed like a parlour. It was less shabby but still wore the air of much use and neglect. My spirits had almost plummeted to the depths of misery and disdain when I chanced upon another figure sititing by the window. It was a young woman, with beautifully unkept hair. She looked at me and gave me a freindly smile. She must come to meet A for an interview as well, I was feeling better already. I seated myself across her.

“I am so glad to found a company!” She had a softly hoarse voice and such delicate lips. I found myself at a loss of words for a while, recovering at the last moment I smiled back at her. She glanced at a door at the end of the room, I hadn't noticed it till then. She leaned in and whispered in a conspirating fashion. “It's him you know, I have been waiting here for about an hour now. He hasn't come out of his room, I can swear I almost hear him pacing ....but till now no show!” She gave an exasperated look.

“He lives upto his reputation then...what do you make of his work? You must have read most of

them?” I thought this could work for me, I could have better chance of getting to know her and then she might give me some more insight into A 's stories as well. She shrugged her shoulders in a non- committing way.

“I wouldn't say I am an expert, but I have read all of his novels...strangely gothic, don't you think...yet so haunting...Have you read his lastest, 'The Air Balloon'? I was enthralled by the thought of invisible formless beings, living in air bubbles all around us, guiding us to either ecstasy or agony?” Her eyes shone in excitement, I found myself staring at her face, framed by unruly curls. I longed for a smoke suddenly. “What really made me think was this idea of his that a person can be replaced by his counter self by these beings if needs be.”

“You wouldn't mind if I smoked?” I blurted out, wishing I hadn't, maybe it would spoil this flow of conversation and I would lose this moment forever. She gave me a quizzical look, “Why would I mind? I would like a puff or two though..Anyhow I haven't told you my name, I am Anita Dey. I am a student of English Lit at Presidency , and also the editor of the college newsletter.” The last bit was said with a bit of flourish and a glint in the eye, that was unbearably adorable. I took out a cigaratte from my left pocket , lit it and took in the smoke to clear my head.

“Yes, this was something which caught my attention as well...especially when he decided to allude to Krishna ad his two lifes. One as a young boy at Gokul, frivolous and youthful, with not a care in the world..” I spoke reflectively, almost to myself.

“Ah yes...and how on his way to Mathura his real home and kingdom, he fell sick, they camped for the night...and the invisible beings built him an air ballon inside his tent, to float his present self away...and he became the capable politician, a responsible shrewd king...adviser to Arjun..playing an important part of the epic battle later in his life...That's why his death is also shrouded in mystery...” She paused for breath, maybe to collect her thoughts as well. I had almost finished my cigarette. “I could almost feel her pain you know, when Radha came to see him in Mathura and she hardly knew him...she said 'Ey toh shey noi..', such simple words yet such deep pain...” She shook her head sadly.

“It's just a story..” I tried to pacify her, feeling a rush of sympathy for her young naivette. She looked a little annoyed. “What if it's not just a story? What if whatever we have read or heard about as children or even now...what we so blightly put off as fiction...what if they were true?”

“We wouldn't run out stories then would we, if strange things keep happening to us?” I said in a attempt to lighten her mood. She gigled, and then gasped. “It's been two hours now? I wonder if he would come out or not?” I looked at the door, silent and formidable, his slippers were placed on the mat...which could only mean he must be inside....but the room was so quiet, hardly a rustle of fabric

against a body....

“Should we knock? What happened to the man who had let us in?” I got up. She looked me puzzled, “What man?”. I was having the same queasy feeling I had when I first saw the house. “I had to let myself in, I tried knocking, there was no reply, but I could hear someone moving inside ...So I decided to wait.” She trailed off, her face echoing my misgivings. I walked to the door, and I knocked at it, at first tentatively then firmly. There was no reply of any kind. He could be in great trouble, some sort of stroke or heart attack, but why was everything so quiet? Wouldn't a man cry out on pain if he has a stroke or a heart attack? Anita had joined me as well, we were banging at the door, fractically trying to elicit a response from anyone inside or outside the room. The door finally gave in, we were hurled forward with the impact. There was a bed, unmade and slept in, a mosquito net thrown on the rust coloured floor. A writing table, chain and a wooden almirah. There were bits and papers everywhere, but there was no sign of A. I looked at his slippers in an insane hope, they looked quite abandoned too. Had we interrupted the little beings in their work?