Void

How does it feel to worship in a temple devoid of divine presence? How does it feel to pledge oneself to a shrine, which is no shrine at all? How does it feel to give someone something you cherish and find it by the wayside, someday? What if he has lost it? How does it feel to part with something forever? How does it feel to witness the mistreatment of something treasured? Why does life choose to educate in the toughest of all ways that could hurt one more than ever? Maybe because then one never forgets. The worst mistake people make is running after vacant packages. Sometimes, there might be something in the package, but look again – it might be meant for a different address. It hurts! It hurts more for the expectation was there, and then suddenly you are left with nothing-nothing at all. And then you understand the meaning of “VOID”.

Void can also be understood when someone leaves you. He may be miles apart but still the presence can be felt like a silent bulwark that supports your very existence. But then again someone might be there right beside you holding your hand, but may not be there “for you” at all. Then you feel the void. You might still be the loneliest person in a room full of people. It hurts – it hurts far too much to actually cry. The realization leaves one stunned like a stone. That is void when you suddenly find, what you always took to be yours is not yours anymore (or maybe hasn’t ever been). Void leaves you confused and desperate when you grope to find the truth, the meaning of existence that you knew to be true! All rules and laws of life that you abided by seem fallacious and there is no meaning at all. But then you know that there IS- there HAS TO BE a meaning. For without it the world would be an illusion. But it is not- it has an existence and it is physical. Everybody is real, the existence is real. The thought of “myself” is also real to you. Then you know you have to find orientation- with or without that part of your life, which is now, a void! Then you realize, like a spark that stimulates you that the feeling of void is not as overpowering as you thought it was. There is still the power to go on. A latent force that could cause havoc, when unleashed properly. Then there is a resurgence of confidence and you adapt.

However the void still remains. You learn to live with it, to adjust accordingly. It leaves you bitter towards that part where you don’t even want to explore. Yet you find yourself drawn like a magnet towards it, in the hours of lonely reminisces. A reverie leads you to imagine what it could have been- if that part of life was not a void. It has left you incomplete. Just like even a subtracted value of .00001 leaves 1 incomplete. You sigh, years have passed, but it still hurts. So is the void really gone? It lingers on hauntingly and you still think whether it REALLY IS overpowering. But you survived.

THINK ABOUT IT.

Water Drops

Since childhood I had loved to play with water. The cold wet sensation added to the thrill of being able to put my hand “through” some kind of super-malleable object in the container in front of me. In fact I liked water so much that the rainy season was my favourite amongst all. My favourite scene was the rain pouring down on all greenery that used to border the little pond in front of my house. I loved to see the droplets coalescing and falling off the tip of the green green foliage into the pond filling it to the brim. I thought that my joys could only be understood and shared by the geese who called the pond “Home”. My coveted pastime stamped authoritatively on my passion for water..it was walking on the green grass wet with dew.

It is such a crazy longing for water that was in my heart that when I grew up I literally fell in love with Water. Seasons came and seasons went but some of the rain clouds lingered over me providing me with a continuous drizzle. I was very happy. However it was often forecasted that the clouds won’t last for long. The sun would shine brightly. Sometimes the clouds would become wisps of white cotton and float overhead; there was no rain, but a sense of security that it had not deserted me altogether. For I could not survive without Water, no one can. And it was my rain. Sometimes in the rainy seasons the clouds grew thick and dark and loomed large over me. I felt a serene sense of peace in the cold moist embrace and felt that it would never let go.

Yet one day the wind blew hard and my white clouds fleeted around me. The sun shone down upon us. My cloud seemed to plead to me to somehow make it wet again, somehow make it moist again. But I could not figure out how. And so it happened that in front of my very own eyes, my love the Rain and the cloud started wilting away, till only a trace was left. I tried to cling on to it and stretched my arms skyward. The cloud, now a faint wisp was powerless and was evaporating fast as it raced upward. I touched it! What was it?!? It moistened my hand. The cloud had disappeared but it left my palm wet with the last few drops of rain that were mine and solely mine. I tried to clench my fist lest the cruel sun lap it up as well. But to my utter horror and dismay I found the drops of water trickling away between my fingers. I tried to protect it desperately with both hands, but the Water knew its course. It was being pulled elsewhere and it kept trickling away from between my fingers. And suddenly I realized my palms were dry and rough. They had never felt so coarse before. I had lost my love. My love had pleaded before me, yet I could do nothing to save it.

Miraculously even today I still have my Rain, but unfortunately the clouds today are my own eyes…………..

Sikkim-A Tryst with Nature

A weekend union with an old friend, light breeze at the Blues & Beyond, one laptop for graphics and an amiable stranger…….

What DO you get when you put all these in a melting pot?

Answer: A close encounter with the Kanchendzonga.

Venue: Rinchenpong (Sikkim), with a dash of trek thrown in at Hilley and Barsey.

It was a balmy summer evening and I was supposed to meet my friend Sohini, for a discussion on our long awaited vacation. She’d meet me at the Lindsay and had informed that she’d be accompanied by a colleague of hers, who apparently is well versed on the lesser known vacation spots in India. Battling the indomitable Kolkata traffic I reached, 15 mins late to find the two pouring over a laptop. I was introduced to Anirban. We spent the evening hearing about his amazing trekking stories as the wind and the wine played wicked tricks on our mind and we kept oscillating between Himachal (our original plan), Leh, Uttarakhand and other probable destinations. The evening ended as expected with no concrete decision made. Our consultancy session had turned out futile. Anirban’s presence could not help us take any decision. Finally, as the charge slip was being signed, he made a parting comment which mentioned a short trek in Sikkim, which he had decided to undertake. The next 10 mins witnessed the finalization of a destination with amazing pace. In one month (including a pre trip dinner) all leaves were sanctioned and in no time we were congregated at the Sealdah- Sohini with her husband, Anirban and myself….off to a remote village called Kaluk (near Rinchenpong in Sikkim).

After a well spent overnight train journey, we reached the New Jalpaiguri station in the morning. And following a cursory meal we set of for Sikkim….hoping to reach our Hotel by noon, and simultaneously grab some breakfast in a wayside eatery. Sohini and Kalyan Da (her husband) had been in these parts a few months back and during that trip the girl had got particularly attached to a fur ball in some inconspicuous eatery on the way. We were ordered to find the same one (on our route) in the hope of some delightful rendezvous between the two. We did manage this feat and were soon settled on the chairs ordering Alu Paratha. The gestation period between the arrival of the pup or the Paratha (either reason for us to actually be present here) was becoming quite long, so Anirban and I decided to explore the vicinity, leaving the couple to their own devices.

The shack was situated on the bank of the dried Mahananda basin. A stony path led up to it. The road was gray, lain with round stones no doubt fished from the river itself. A quaint tree stood on one side. It had no leaves. Only yellow inflorescence embellished the tip of each branch. Anirban was curiously venturing around and I was taking snaps when both of us were startled by a bellow from the restaurant…..love dripping from it……”Taaaashi….Taaashi.......” . It echoed across the Sevoke railroad, visible at a distance. We decided that this was our “dramatic moment of fate”.

Our meeting with Taashi was hardly a very warm one. She had grown up and was accompanied by two other friends. Unfortunately she failed to share the same remembrance as Sohini, and we chewed through our hot Parathas with her growling at our feet.

We were soon back to the car winding our way through the Eastern Himalayas. Every curve offered us a milieu of breath taking views. There were spurs covered in lush green interlocking with others, which in stark contrast were brown, bereft of any trace of vegetation. The Teesta meandered through the curves like a blue stain ribbon, occasionally stirring up patches of white where its path met any rocky obstacle underneath. It was beautiful. The slopes were covered in vegetation which gave off a wonderful musty smell that makes one strangely reminiscent…strangely nostalgic of some unforgotten memory.

The drive to Kaluk is about 4 hours. We reached the quaint little village and proceeded towards our hotel, one of the series of three located in three consecutive steps cut on the mountain slope itself. Kaluk is a tiny village that comprised a market place which had a few shops with limited offerings, a couple of liquor shops, a school somewhere for, as we were to discover throughout our stay, there was an incessant flow of students who came and went from all directions. There was also a transport depot. The main attraction of this appealingly insignificant village was a monastery that was nestled in the upper slopes.

As our car had been snaking its way through the Bazaar, it had started to rain. We cursed our luck. The drizzle continued unabated all through the time that we actually had taken to settle down in our rooms. It had enmeshed the entire lodging in a gossamer blanket of fog. We ordered lunch and settled down in the anteroom with it, keeping the wooden window open to an absolutely translucent view. An air of despondency had settled in. It was right in this unexpected juncture that we actually watched God almighty at work!! The rain had stopped awhile before, and suddenly like the opening of an eye, the sky cleared as a patch. The clouds unveiled the scene beyond in a surreal situation that can be termed as an eye opener. The clouds slowly floated away..forming the shape of a human eye… and there it was Le Magnifique!! The Kanchendzonga. Through the opening we saw the golden-white peak emerging against a fading grey horizon. We were transfixed for several seconds, before reality struck us and the shutterbugs happily went clicking away. The majestic unveiling of the Kanchendzonga continued for a few minutes till it was fully revealed in its grand glory and splendor…

Recovering from the awe and duly rejuvenated we decided to make the trip to the Rinchenpong monastery, about 20mins drive away, so that we could make it back by sundown. I’ll skip the journey.

The walk to Rinchenpong monastery is lined with rows of fir and cypress, which eventually gives way to a golden yellow gateway. The area beyond this is lined with the typical Buddhist holy flags. It is a common belief that the air that passes through these holy flags becomes pure and holy by its touch, and one is blessed to breathe it. There was a wonderful feeling of bliss as the wind swished though the silk embroidered flags.

The monastery itself is a small wooden structure, devoid of any external embellishment. The upper storey is used as an eating room. The small children in their red and yellow robes were engaged in taking a meager meal of boiled rice up the stairs, and sinfully yet sweetly stealing a gulp or two on way to their destination!

The monastery had already closed, but we were allowed entry with special permission.

The inside of the little Monastery was dimly lit with oil lamps placed in front of the statue of the Lord Buddha. It was a unique one. It is one of the only 2 in the world that depicted the (Ati)Buddha in a carnal posture, embracing a delicate lady. There was a semicircular row of wooden benches all along the wall, with manuscripts neatly placed within the folds of red cloth, and tied with a single string. Presumably it was the school where the young monks were inducted. I stood there, in the dark room in front of the Lord. A peculiar halo from the sun, the last of its dying rays entered from the entrance and lit the statue. It looked uncannily beautiful. The Flames of the oil lamps flickered with the slightest trace of chilly wind that entered and touched everything on its way. I stood there, my palms folded, with a tranquil feeling that the Lord will listen to my prayers, here, if not anywhere else. I did not realize a young monk enter the shrine. He stood beside me and quietly asked me to vacate the premises. I was extremely content, satiated to the brim with my holy experience. As I came out I saw another group of tourists had come wandering and the monks were in a hurry to close the gates. It was a transfixing experience, I felt as if I had been in the presence of The Almighty.

We were generally quiet on our way back. The air too had become quite chilly. Once back in Kaluk bazaar, we decided to stock on a bit of “fuel” to keep us warm company through the nippy evening. We settled down to a great evening of chit-chats and debates, philosophical talks and leg pulling. That evening we tasted the Ghonde Vodka. We had decided that the trip would be futile if we didn’t try “everything indigenous”. However, the taste to the tongue was not a very pleasant one.

It was this night that I had two fantastic experiences.

Firstly, as we stepped outside,once during the evening to go to the reception, darkness fell like a huge black blanket with a widespread power cut. I stood still trying to steady my sense of direction. Not being able to figure anything out, I casually looked up, and the sight that greeted me was amazing. The dark velvety sky was literally littered with thousands and thousands of shimmering stars. It was as if someone had carelessly thrown in a bagful of diamonds on a black display tray. Maybe I shouln’t try any such comparisons as there are no adequate words in which I may humble the beauty of the scene. We moved to the edge of the compound, and I kept staring at the sky till Kalyan da had dutifully come searching for us and had found us safe and sound. Soon power was restored.

Post dinner, as the couple took some rest, I, duly guided by Anirban left the hotel compound and climbed downhill. We entered the last hotel in the series of the 3 steps. We sneaked into the campus and went to the farthest edge where there was a shaded area, more like a view point. As we walked into that, I looked out towards the horizon. Again my eyes met with a singularly spectacular sight. The entire spectrum that my vision could cover was glittering with the lights from the settlement across mountain on the other side of the valley. It was impossible to figure out where the human intervention ended and the Heavens began as all of it was shimmering before my eyes. It looked unreal. The only distinction being that the stars were silvery white and golden light came from the small settlements. We sat there for a long time in absolute silence, punctuated by short calls from some wild animal from the bushes bordering the campus walls. It was an enchanting experience.

We had made up our minds to watch the sunrise the next day, no matter what. Waking up at 5, I stepped outside on the green grass of the lawn freshly wet with the dew. The Himalaya looked grey against the pallor of the sky. Thankfully the sky was clear. Around 5.15 the peak started to be tinted and within the next 20 minutes it had undergone a wonderful change in the medley of colours ranging from pale rosy (as if coloured by a careless stroke of an artist’s brush), red and orange. A black bird flew against the magnificent backdrop heralding in morning. It was six, and the sun shone brightly warming our necks in a pleasant manner.

It was a big day for us. It was the day on which we were to go trekking. The actual purpose for us so have come this far. We drove to a place called Hilley from where we were to start our short trek to Barsey, a rhododendron sanctuary. Our driver informed that there was even a short way up to Hilley (comparable to a trek by itself) along the slopes of the mountain, which was used by the locals. Tempting as it may have been, we decided to refrain from the lesser trodden path. Our trek started at 11 in the morning. The road cut through the pristine Himalayan forest. It is the habitat of some of the rarest wildlife known to inhabit this part of the world- The Jaguar, the Black Bear and the elusive Red Panda. The slopes had a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees. There was a range of laurel, bamboo, birch, alder, magnolia and the lovely rhododendron (not yet in bloom fully). The entire scene was tinged with green and wore a wet feeling from the transpiring vegetal giants. The trunks of these trees scaling 50 m or more were cased in moss that gave them a fascinating old look. The epiphytes and parasites seemed to share a symbiotic relationship with them over the ages. The nooks and crannies in the slopes were inhabited by small dark beetles or other multicolored winged creatures. The road which we traveled on was carpeted with the Guras that had fallen from the tree and made a lovely pink contrast to the otherwise green ambiance. As I walked along the sloping path, I wondered how this biome was placed on a delicate balance scale of nature. The wonderful life of the forest was shut out from the bustling humanity only a walk of 5 minutes away by a single large gate that formed the demarcation between God’s creation and our own. I shuddered with fear thinking of the consequence if we ever, desired to encroach in here for something more than fuelwood. Yet, the environment was strangely peaceful and motivating. Here and there some small bird would whistle past and fly into the dense vegetation of the valley below. The drone of the cricket was strangely soothing and familiar to the existence of the moment. The rippling sound of an unseen rivulet played music to the ears. Sometimes we could see a small stream coming down the slopes, crossing the road and continuing down the slope again. The place where it crossed the path was also of unique beauty; the crystal clear water traversed a broken area underlain with flat rocks smoothened by the passage of the water itself.

There were sudden flat lands where conifers grew in strands of perfect harmony. It was beautiful.

We trekked up to Barsey, which was a sudden clearing forming the flat summit of the highland. We spent an hour or so exploring the area and then trekked down along the same pristine path. I continuously prayed for one sight of the charming Red Panda (the original “Panda”, discovered much before the Chinese Panda), but as expected my wish was not granted. The short and lovely trek completed I realized with a tinge of melancholy that our tryst with Nature had come to an abrupt end.

The next day we lazed around, just drenching ourselves with the beauty of the Kanchendzonga which was still visible in all its sublime beauty. Even the residents of the hotel complimented our luck, as it kept company throughout our stay. We were happy, we were blessed. It rained again as we left for the station in the afternoon. It was like an uncanny completion of the circle, as we ended our journey and drove back to NJP.

A Rendezvous

A single crow just strolled past me, walking casually, sometimes just hopping along.

Continuous observation led me to the conclusion that extremely obnoxious and dirty things attract it. My conclusion got a stamp of approval from Nature, as it just satisfied itself in the garbage can. It walked past, occasionally staring at my companions, and me with quick movements of its neck tilted automatically at a haughty angle. It probably wondered at how it might never be able to read the manner in which we, the Humans, functioned. Just like I, who lived in a contemporary age of crows, seemed to know a lot about their lot yet I could not decipher how the bird may think, what its feelings could be and how much do these feelings have affinity to human emotions. Was the crow too, thinking about me this way? I think not!

As far as observations and studies show, crows scarcely have a philosophical bent of mind. Moreover it seemed to be watching me with extremely practical eyes. Ever noticed a crow’s eyes? It seems like a white spot in a dark velvet background-like the rays of the sun percolating through a small hole on the cover of a dinghy well, and falling on its eerie waters below!! I wonder what the crow might feel if it knew I had called its eyes a dark, stinking, stuffy well. (Well..to my defence I might say that I had compared thy eyes to infinity-a bottomless, unfathomable wonder). Their eyes might be precious to them- “A Crow’s Eyes!”

The crow was busy, it peeked satisfactorily inside the garbage, took out what seemed like a deplorable tattered mass of organic origin. It was pleased to peck and nibble at the remains. It then hopped along to the water filter from where it hungrily sucked out a few drops of water and quenched its thirst. But so far the crow had hardly given any signs of being so thirsty. In fact crows never display any sort of emotion at all. That is why it is safe and trouble free to draw the conclusion that a crow’s mind is devoid of higher thoughts and feelings. It just seems the perfect reason as to why their life is so less complicated. The entire spectrum of their lives seems to encompass screaming at an unbearable pitch, creating a cacophony anytime they are spotted. (Except when they are spotted under broken sun shades in warm summer afternoons.)

However, there are some conclusive or rather compelling facts regarding crows. One, for instance, is that they know how to count (upto 4 **). I wonder if all crows are biologically blessed with this instinct to count or are the specially trained ones master of this special ability. If all crows knew how to count, then this particular crow too might have observed that there were four taps in the filter which it used. Crows are, however, by nature, very stubborn and are instilled with or born with an irritating sense of inquisitiveness in them. Which bring me to the second point. It must be due to heredity for the parent of the crows too, must have been extremely inquisitive themselves. Entering places where they were not supposed to and tasting things not meant for them. This would lead to their co-species to shower endless curses on them. I guess they are like that-born immune to insult.

Since we are on the topic of their emotion and heart, it may be brought to light that the crow does have a heart, which metaphorically speaking can be touched, when one from their very own clan seems to be in virtual danger. They start their unsynchronized symphony, till they ward off all trace of prevailing danger. I personally have also been lucky enough to be witness to the following vastly educational experience. It so happens that I reside in a building overlooking a pond. Here dwell several geese. On one winter afternoon one of the birds was fatally injured and after trudging up to the bank, was incapable of any further movement. Right at this precarious moment it was spotted by a stray dog, which needless to say approached the poor bird with cheetah like stealth (for obvious purposes). Suddenly a couple of our dark angels appeared and placed themselves like sentry on either side of the dying bird shooing away any form of danger if it approached the bird. This continued till a gentleman came and rescued the goose. The crows seemed to have perceived that there was no threat from this approach and flew off as the man carried the goose away, cradling it in his arms. This sure makes for some brownie points towards the crows character. Worthy of respect, one must admit.

Coming back to my object of interest, The Crow, for a while sat on the roof in front gazing at me with amazing interest. Scarcely did he know that all this time he was being acutely observed and was the centre of thoughts in a human mind. What would he have felt if he knew? Well, it probably wouldn’t have bothered him, as it would have me, if I knew that I was on someone’s mind for a while. He would have flown off, anyway. And he did!!

Crows are very busy animals, not in the category of wasps and bees though, but they can be termed as “busybodies” to an irritable extent, though it does not irritate humans who do not have much better occupation than leisurely watching the activities of one. The crow who flew off would meet other crows (for there is no dearth of them around) utter a disgusting greeting and continue his levitation- a black spot in the boundless, limitless sky. But crows are brainless fools and never realize the amount of their freedom for once again it swoops down to a garbage dump, snatches away a dead rat and basically enjoys strolling about in the polluted streets of cities, eventually dying of old age or car accidents. In short, the life of crows, like the one I saw today, is dirty, busy and fruitless. They may spend their entire lives doing something or the other everyday, but they do nothing great or significant, nothing worth remembering even in their own world. Maybe, crows are just made that way, never caring to leave a mark; except for the one or two Messengers from God (as the two) I had the good fortune of observing. Maybe the summary of a crow’s life is “An unplanned wastage of freedom granted”.

DIAGRAMMATIC REPRESENTATION OF THE DAY :-)

An Interesting Bus Journey

Sometimes I wonder what boredom can drive people to do….it frustrates, or else, just like it has done with me today, may prompt one to observe one’s surroundings acutely and ponder on it, and finally, without too much hope in the heart urge one to write something on it.

My life in a nutshell, provides me regular thrill in waking up groggy headed (as if suffering from perpetual hangover). I then drag myself round to do away with the daily routine, which I have mastered with much dexterity in accomplishing in a commendably negligible span of time. Let us not go into the unnecessary unpleasantries and move on to the more exciting part of me walking down the dust veiled street after stuffing myself with breakfast and the mandatory vitamin pill. Yes, it seems to be the only reliable thing that has the power of actually pulling me through the tediously fascinating days of my life. My short trip from my home to the bus stand never fails to give me the uncanny excitement of having to pull out my handkerchief from the piles of junk which are stuffed inside my bag as I see the rickety buses rushing towards me and blowing dust all over the world triumphantly. Sometimes I succeed just in the nick of time to cover my nostrils, and sometimes pitifully I fall at their mercy. The danger zone is crossed as I curl my hand to my forehead, subconsciously at the Shib Mondir- the LOC of dusty and pure air zone. Here I face the frugal threat of a not-so-mentionable looking lady sweeping the road with an eye catching piece of log, attached to which are other thinner sticks which seem to gnaw at the pothole ridden road with vengeance. I have noticed in the short span of time, without actually being rude, the lackluster and futile attempt of hers in being a true messenger of the Municipality, trying to promise the good citizens a cleaner environment.

The rest 30 seconds remaining to my destination- the bus stop, along with time added for waiting there, my thoughts are always occupied by a queer determination that rises out of a mere glimpse I had taken inside my bag in the process of hunting for my handkerchief.

“I really need to clean my bag!!”..if not for the quick rescue of the poor piece of cloth, then surely for prevention of spondilosis. It may be destiny that stops my counting of the things I’d seen in my bag. The 3C/1 rumbles along, emerging from the horizon..like a rescuer….Umbrella, Tiffin box, chewing gum packets, a few CDs, cream, worthless visiting cards, 3 earrings w/o their pairs..atrocious!!!...and the conductor ushers me in.

Lucky enough to squeeze between two moderately sized ladies, I make a quick survey of the known faces in the bus. Yes! That irritable French cut belonging to an equally irritable face propped up on a worthless existence of body is busy flashing smiles at his co-passengers. A regular at the 8.50 bus just like me. Somehow this is one of the appalling encounters among many to come that I have to encounter everyday from the bus stop itself. I have a particular hunch that this 5’8’’ existence of flesh and bones wants to attract my attention. There are probably some people on earth who incur the wrath of “singles” like me just by the virtue of their unassumingly friendly looks rather than their actions. I begin to feel sorry…the Mother Teresa inside me awakens. The bus has trudged along to Gariahat. I look away to find another regular scrutinizing my chappal. Utterly self conscious I satisfy myself that my not-so-remarkable feet are not looking too hideous. Then I too start on examining her attire, the next person and the person next to her, which is invariably the “amicable lady”- friend to all the bus riders (this, and every morning) and particularly attached to the irritating French cut existence. I learn that staring can be a very harmful and contagious practice.

The singularly exciting trip continues punctuated by occasional glances at the watch. Often I try to amuse myself by guessing the time at important junctions like Deshapriya Park, Rashbehari Jn, Hajra Crossing (which always has to duel with Exide with regard to importance).Finally the refreshing activity of taking a long look at the Victoria Memorial and then deboarding at the Chowringhee.

I alight on the dust ridden road. A quick glance at the lush greenery of Elliot Park provides some relief from the scorching heat that is beating mercilessly down on me from a sun fresh at work. I cross the road with a sudden smile as I remember the day’s shows that may be lined up at Elliot Park under the cozy shelter of the shrubberies that had a few minutes before soothed my retina.

The thought pattern is broken as the cars whiz past me and I have to cover my nose again (just in case you were wondering about my obsession with this, I suffer from acute dust allergy). The next couple of minutes are a mad rush to our respective offices. Seems like a part of Manhattan being transported to our greasy footpaths festooned with cover pages of magazines of all genres. We rush on. But with regard to self amusement I never cease. I overtake the person in front, then have my next target and continue this way, till a little exhausted I enter my peaceful work premises. Here I am greeted by a courteous and assuring “Good Morning” or a condensed version of the same –“Morning”. The days (most of them) that I get to hear the latter I keep climbing the stairs thinking how appropriate the phrase was. True! Wherein lies the goodness of every morning that we face? Then why should the hypocrisy of “Good” precede the simple and crisp “Morning”!!

An uneventful day approaches after a short prayer in front of the Goddess Durga. It’s a uniquely well crafted piece of Dokra Art from Orissa. I smugly settle down in my black chair and log on into my system. I have an inspirational wallpaper, which I hardly notice, thereby bypassing the sole reason for painstakingly putting it up there in the first place…to inspire myself every morning. On occasional days though, when I am in a particularly venomous mood, I feel like beating up the lady who undauntingly tries to motivate me from the desktop. However, I soon proceed to the fantastic job of taking out the voucher print, which always, somehow in an unexplained manner, seems to rejuvenate Buddha da.

The day rolls on with my payments and reimbursements smiling at me from within the folds of the folders. I carry on, regularly disturbed by the nuisance created by A.G Bell.

And soon it is 2 p.m one of the two magic hours in the life of a person in service. No awards for guessing that the other one is at 6.30p.m.

Lunch is an excuse to go to my favourite place in the entire office-the Terrace. It’s a vast open expanse where I can stay undisturbed. I stand under the sky, in the soothing shade of a huge coconut tree. I can look out on to the manicured greens of the Kenilworth, and the people working there. A couple of tourists enjoying beer, a waiter in his starched white carrying a tray from one end to the other. I always wonder why he/she has to be so immaculate even when no one is watching. I have a hunch that if I were in his/her place I’d surely do a tap dance or sing a tribal song en route to the more sophisticated parts of my corporate existence. Wasn’t that my only secret liaison with freedom? Well, I guess not all people think like me. And there ARE people who are soothed by the bondage of restrained behaviour. I can see the thick foliage of the mango tree bearing its green fruit. Sujon Da tells me that the storm will take away 40% of the aam and I am instantly transported to my school days when we used to study “Pother Panchali”. …..sheyi Apu aar Durgar jhorer modhye aam kurono. There’s the monotonous call of the GhuGhu Pakhi and the normal cacophony of the greedy crow who has an eye for the fruit I carry to the terrace. Gurudas Da smokes in the corner. Vivek with a smile speaks on the phone. We are all hopeful for him until we hear him talking about the budget. A busy squirrel scampers by. Sometimes I also love speaking to my dear one on the terrace in the cool shade of the Narkol Gachh. I miss my friends who used to accompany me here before. We used to indulge in some really enriching girl-talk, flavoured by oranges (as one, while going through this manuscript, dutifully reminded me). Soon the reverie is broken and I must return to my folders filled with fiscal follies of my friends in other departments.

Soon, outside the sun after a glorious day’s work sets. I’m afraid he too doesn’t have any fixed work hours. More painful a realization is that he comes real early like our colleagues at the Service Branch.

Though we can hardly understand the difference, one more day has already ended. I often hear excerpts emanating from equally pained souls that say “ What a life we have! Wake up-office-lunch-(office)-home-dinner-sleep”….to which an optimistic voice gently reminds him that it also has an happier annual aspect of “target meeting in March and Variable Pay in April”. To me it looks like traveling to Japan from Alaska via Europe. That would surely encompass the annual aspect of the comment.

My Boss, a kindly soul, relieves me early, around 7 and I again embark on a journey to the bus stop. One amazing thing I have noticed about myself is the lack of realization of the presence of the same amount of dust in the atmosphere or even more of it after sundown. I walk up to Exide blissfully ignorant of the fact and very much conscious and observant of the latest style icons hanging about near Emami Landmark.

I usually begin my tiresome wait in front of Avani Heights, if accidentally I haven’t already made a jhulonto entry into a passing bus. The wait seems too tedious and I keep glancing at the Marks & Spencer’s outlet. I only allow myself there with 350/- in my pocket to buy my cream. As I stand there waiting, the faint humming of the fountain soothing my ears, I again slip into a sentimental mood of missing my friend who used to go home with me. Now she is married though, and settled in Mumbai.

Life moves on… “ Desopriyo, Goriaha, Ballygon, Bosepukur, Ruby”. My call. I rush to the bus.

The return journey is not so eventful. It’s just a complicated attempt of finding peace at the end of the day. I sit trying to think about the happy moments in my life and occasionally trying to guess the food for dinner. The lady beside me in all probabilities thinks of wrapping up, and recollecting the pending chores that have to be completed. The sweat stained man with a perpetual frown and a mobile in his hand talks of figures and calculations..targets to be met. He remains highly irritated. The rustics who suddenly block my view seem to be agitated at mere body contact. “Didi ektu shorey daran na”. The scream and the stench seem to usher in the end of yet another working day. It somehow gives confidence and is extremely familiar to our existence. It seems to indicate no thoroughfare in the normal course of Life.

The only soul unruffled by all this is the thin tee shirt clad girl talking on her cell, putting her little head out of the window lest the rest of the world (now the people in close proximity) may hear the tender words spoken. Little does she realize that we don’t have time for all that. Maybe it is because she herself is unruffled by the atrocities of struggle for survival. We all want to go Home now. Overcoming the hurdles of the crossings at Hajra, and Gariahat I somehow, predictably though, make it home.

Activities that dot the evening till the time I’m sprawled in bed wearing my Bermudas and tee shirt seem too unworthy of mention. A few more good moments awake and then I must sleep for I have to get up next morning.

A peaceful realization dawns -My life (as are many such lives of corporate executives) truly is nothing but a significant bus journey with three mentionable stops- Kasba Purono Thana-Officer chhaad and back.

And we blissfully carry on………………