Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

A Good Mistake

I haven’t met any of these three persons, neither have they met each other ever. Yet, all of them were fortunate enough to commit a good mistake.

While writing this even I wasn’t sure… How?? Then I read the complete article of the newspaper and connected the dots.


While I read about Vishal, he seemed to me a very ordinary person. He used to live with his grandparents in Panchkula, a graduate from Punjab University and doing a fine 9 to 5 job in an MNC located at Hallomajra Chowk, Chandigarh. Although he always used to commute for work on his new shimmering black Pulsar-200; but that was a different day, he purposefully left his bike. After all, Meera will be there to be with him after a very long time. Delhi isn’t too far but indeed far enough to construct an elongated dam between the two subjects of each other’s desire.

Her bus had to arrive at the Chandigarh bus terminal at 7.30 PM in the evening. So, unlike his regular personality, Vishal had planned everything- especially booked a self-driven rental car, bought two seats for 9.00 PM Aashiqui2 at PVR Centra and then a long overnight drive to Simla. After all this will be the last time they will be seeing each other before she flies to Europe for her 2 years’ internship. Vishal winded up all his work at 6:00 PM itself and kept scrolling the laptop screen, doing nothing but checking the watch at his desktop again and again.

He spent almost an hour doing the same, then hurriedly packed up his stuff at sharp 7:00 and called the self-driven car to be dropped at the office door. Within next 15 minutes he was at the bus terminal with the wheels of hired jet black Scorpio at his shoe knots. He still had 15 minutes for the bus to arrive, so he stole sometime for Marlboro, although he was impatiently puffing the smoke without even processing the nicotine into his body. At 7.31 PM he called her cellphone which was replied by the service provider out of coverage area.

Our mind is sometimes creative enough to produce a long unending story of ‘ifs’ & ‘buts’.

Vishal was witnessing such stories from more than an hour now, meanwhile he enquired at the Information Center at the terminal and they had no idea when the bus will arrive at the station. No one there seemed to have the contact number of the driver or the conductor. Each passing minute was becoming a bull sized bullet being shot straight into his epiglottis.

By 10.00 PM he had spoken to almost all reachable officials at the terminal, made several calls to Meera’s close friends, and dialled some random numbers from other bus drivers given as a hit and trial to reach Meera’s bus, posting comments at the Punjab Roadways websites & what not. By 11.00 PM he was sitting on the footpath in front of the Scorpio with headlights dim, tears frozen in his eyelashes and wondering what if he hadn’t planned this trip for her.

Was it a mistake?

New Delhi

Both the sisters had an unconditional love and understanding between them. No one would have ever imagined that the girls were raising themselves so considerately on their own. Their parents were living in the small village at Aizawal, but in order to support the girls with their dreams; they had sent both the daughters to New Delhi for graduation. It’s almost seven years since the twin sisters were residing in small dwellings of Satya Niketan, although they had changed 9 places within 7 years in the same locality in order to save themselves from rising rent rates.

They have been into this same flat from past two years, since they were able to afford the price hike now; only when Sophie shifted from part-time Call Center job to full-time German Translator in a reputed MNC. Whereas Miral the other sister is still at the same Call Center job and indeed a world class gymnast winning various awards at State Level. Both the sisters were fulfilling each other’s needs and were also providing for their family at home town. During their last visit at home they were able to convince the family to bring their kid brother along with with them and take his secondary education from Delhi.

Everything was composed until last night, when Sophie found out that Miral is dodging the opportunity for a 2 year internship in advanced gymnastic at London entirely funded by the State Academy. Miral was talented yet non-ambitious unlike her sister. She was happy the way her life was moving, she never craved nor tried harder to get more. She had succeeded in the fields which came naturally to her. Even on that day she tried to rule out Sophie in the argument, stating that gymnastics is just a hobby for her and nothing more. She has a life here, responsibilities at home and the present world is all she wanted to live in. But Sophie forced her to see a brighter and bigger picture; she tried convincing her how precious these opportunities are and that only fewer people are able to get such honours.

That night was longer than usual for both of them as they couldn’t get even a minute’s sleep after that long an argument. And next day Miral was found writing an acceptance mail with Sophie standing on her shoulders. Thereafter with all procedures completed, she had to collect her sponsorship documents from Chandigarh Center as she was sponsored by Haryana State, before she leaves for London.

At exact 10:00 PM that night, Sophie received a call from Miral’s friend that Miral’s bus went missing. She called up Miral’s mentor at State Sports authorities, Punjab Transport and whatever possible means she could do but she was unable to establish any contact with her. With every 2 minutes passing she made calls at Miral’s cellphone which stood unreachable. At the exact 00:00 hours she received a call from Panipat Police Station stating that they found ID of Miss Miral from an accident spot at highway. The phone got disconnected due to poor network.

Sophie called back with tears melting down her eyes, thinking, What if she wouldn’t have convinced Miral so badly, for her internship.

Was it a mistake?


Virender is a small time businessman with a petite shop of bed sheets at the main market of Panipat. He might not be considered as a very intelligent entrepreneur but indeed a hard-working one. He would start his shop at 6.30 in the morning and won’t close until 10.30 in night. He only had a young boy to look over the shop with him.

That day he had put the shutter down at 5.30 PM in the evening. It was the first time in last 10 years that his handlooms won’t be available in the market before dark. Well, he had a genuine reason. His wife is waiting at Ward No. 54 of Panipat Civil Hospital for him to stand along with her while she delivers a baby.

In excitement & with extreme gladness he left the shop, kicked off his luna and took a shortcut from within the farms to the hospital; He rode with his best capabilities of speed, rushing through the ranches in the hope to see his ‘Son’ soon. Yes, like an average Indian, he highly hoped to have a boy who could eventually contribute a hand in his business.

While he was speeding towards the nursing home, he saw a Roadways bus being driven within the small lanes of Wheat farms. This was strange, since buses usually keep their way only on highway. The bus was driven so recklessly that while crossing the opposite paths of the same small lane, it almost considered Virender’s luna unnoticed due to which he almost lost control but managed his balance while shouting at the bus.

It was a long narrow road in the open field, such that even after crossing 3 kms away from bus he could see its pint sized figure rolling in to the fields with a loud yet unnoticed noise. He raced away to the city after listening to the heavy sound of tyre bursting like a gunshot, followed by the wreckage. However he could still see the bus rolling till it hit some trees. He slowed down, while thinking about her wife and the baby. Yet decided to move back towards the bus, thinking no one would come to know about the accident at this lone place until next morning.

As he reached towards the bus, he saw some fire & smoke and he spoke to himself while he stopped at the tumbled bus. What if I wouldn’t have taken a reverse turn? I may possibly miss my baby’s birth tonight if I am here.

“Isn’t it a mistake?”

Mistake- was it? Or it isn’t?

While he thought so, he saw a young girl struggling her way out of the small window pane at the rear end of the bus. She came out, sat on the ground and took some deep breaths when Virender reached to her saying “hey aap thik hain madam”, she saw him without a response. He tried again “Madam hindi samajh ati hai? Alryt u? What your name? (He handed a water bottle to her as he asked)” She responded ‘Mir’ and quickly grasped the bottle to her lips.

Virender alarmed “Madam there is a fire and diesel leakage, You’re lucky that you escape from little window, now be away from vehicle….. I call emergency”. Having said so, he started dialling 100, 101, 102. But there are usually weak signals in the middle of the field, yet he was able to connect to 100 but could not explain much. Meanwhile he noticed that the Mir-girl is not there, he looked here & there and find none. And then she popped out with a little 5-6 yr old boy from the same petite window pane bathed in red water and crying. She handed the boy to him and hurried back to the bus. Virender shouted “Arey madam bus me fire, u mad kya” to which she replied “Bhaiya! Drag that cart from the field and tie attaching with your luna”. While he was doing so, she was able to bring out atleast 27 kids and 2 adults out of the cart one by one through the same window pane.

Virender asked for what more amounts of people are left to be brought out, to which she replied that only three more are left but unconscious, rest are dead. The man was astonished to see this girl going into the red pool of dead, continuously searching for life and bringing them out alive. By this time, the back of the bus had caught a huge fire and it had taken relatively more time for the girl to come out. Scanning the bus from distance along with survivor, they were pretty sure that the girl along with rest of them is not able to make it out; as that escape route through window pane was now drenched with fire.

“Sometimes, some people get sacrificed due to some deed of kindness for some other people.”

Thinking of this and the young children’s unbearable pain he kicked the luna and started off to the hospital. This time he kept watching the Bus in his rear mirror till it exploded. All his way upto the hospital, he thought of the Mir-girl’s courageousness. He reached Panipat Civil Hospital with the fastest possible means of his driving skills. Apparently, it was discovered that a school trip was moving in that Punjab Roadways which got technical disruption to the brakes and the same young girl advised the driver to take a ‘path less followed’ through the fields instead of highway.

All the 27 kids and 2 teachers were now fine with minor injuries. Virender had actually missed his daughter’s birth although without any regret; as he was able to save sons and daughters of many parents. With the new born in his hands and smiling with his eyes wet, he said “You’re my Mir-girl”.

The Police & Fire brigade were there on the spot with in few minutes of the blast followed by reporters and news channels.

All other passengers were reported dead.

Vishal was glued to the TV channel after getting the news at the Chandigarh bus terminal, hoping to listen about Meera;

And Sophie was also sitting tightly in Delhi with her little brother, constantly being in front of her TV set.

When this common Mir-girl appeared on the television screen from the spot of accident covered with a warm shawl and escorted by fire safety squad, with a tagline flashing

“The fire tried but couldn’t burn the saviour tonight!”

Vishal, Sophie and Virender are still not sure if it was a mistake that day, but they are sure of one thing; even-though if it was a mistake, it was a good one.

aah ko chaahiye ik umr asar hone tak !!

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Uncategorized

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems unnecessary

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

To do an act, to perform, to react; the important is just a spontaneity

Where I see love with a sense of pride, coupled with some memories and colourful skies

To go beyond boundaries touching clouds in the rides

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

Bubbles in the water may float into the minds

But the moment they burst and those ideas ignites

The framework it sets, the novation it prospects

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

While talking to a child or ladies and fellas thrown in the wild

The rubber of emotion, so flexible yet fragile

Consumption of situation is a part of life, with all engagements compulsory

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

An athlete is running with an innocent thought,

Without judging or evaluating that he may reach somewhere or not

Time, Distance & Speed is all he may measure to keep his passionate bond

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

Yes, it will end on a day when it is ought

When breaths sojourn, thoughts conclude and the energies revoke

Then all the wisdom, all calculations & the assessments shall fail

It’s just what we believe while unripe still

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

Posted in Movie Review, Narration, Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

A semi-circle of glittering emotions : Memories in March

यह रातें, यह मौसम

नदी का किनारा, यह चंचल हवा !

We all know how love, hatred, sorrow, happiness, gratification and such other innumerable glittering emotions constitute Life. Also, that these are like electrons and protons moving vigorously within its mass and thereby unnerving life’s atomic configuration. I am always intrigued by the ever-evolving natural instincts of the beings. We have an inbuilt super-dynamic RAM, which aids us to make swift shifts of emotions that somehow contributes in developing, evolving and mending our AI system.

Rituparno did a sensational job by expressing such simple concept through his story and as depicted in the movie “Memories in March”. The movie flows like a cold soothing stream down the robust hills and finally meeting its fate of serene circle of ocean. No doubt Sanjoy had a rhythmic vision while directing this movie, he indeed did a fab situational portrayal of the tale.

“A mother waiting for a flight to meet her deceased son”, yet carrying a valiant expression & voice, played by Deepti Naval. Siddhartha had been living away for his first job in Kolkata and always used to call Aarti, her mother who resides in Delhi, to come and live with him. Finally, his call is met and Aarti is flying to live with him although she won’t find his physical presence now.

We’re often late. Sometimes reaching someplace or meeting someone is not prioritised over our monotonous routine. I wonder why nurturing our inner-self takes a back-seat and we keep ourselves driven by decorating our outer shells.

Aarti kept memorising e-mails written by her son, where he described everything minutely “the office space, his company allotted 2bhk flat, people, roads, windows and the doors.” Sid was very close to his mother and was fond of sharing even pintsize moments with her. She missed visiting him at those moments.

While coming back from crematorium, she enquired patiently about the accident from Sid’s boss ‘Arnob’ who was accompanying her in his Car. He described all possible events about the tragedy concluding with the one, that the body was kept in ice until Aarti arrived. A mother feels her womb forever; she still could feel the cold just by the thought her son being kept in ice. Arnob innocently asked if he should raise the temperature of AC when Aarti closed her arms tightly around herself with a shawl- an immediate sensory motion while she was listening. Later as she is dropped at her son’s flat, she is found carrying the same dilemma as she opened the freezer and spoke “Babu boht thand thi kya vahan?”.

The epic screenplay of Rituparno turns to its best in the scene where after the big courageous day of Aarti, she is finally seen to be broken; while sitting on a bed with the pot of ashes in her laps like a young mommy carrying her new born in the arms, trying to get it to sleep with a lullaby.

Each morning gives a different twist and turn to our streaming mind-set.

Next morning, Aarti is seen to have moved towards first step of the acceptance of her misfortune. She is texting her relatives, informing them about the incident. She has developed an instinct to get introduced to her son’s life. No doubt she cannot talk to him but for a day or two, she is almost living some part of his life. She is meeting the same people he used to meet daily- the milk-man, the chowkidaar bhaiya, his office-mates, the fishes in the aquarium and the last egg in the fridge which has written over it “Caution: I am the last one.” Well, the last egg has a relatively more importance than other. Isn’t it.

She is now visited by Shahana, a lovely decent girl ‘played by the bengal beauty Raima Sen’, who has shown huge respect & affection towards Aarti since she has arrived. In this deepest time of sorrow, a mother is still capacitated with the thought, that may be her son has finally met someone to settle down. We, the people has a lust towards contentment, we seek to fetch the same at least in our dreams with all possible opportunities.

Shahana helps Aarti to have a flavour of Sid’s life, she takes her to the office. Aarti finds everything as were mentioned in mails from his son- the stairs, the hallways, chambers, cubicles. And then the one where Sid used to sit, it had a soft board displaying his thoughts, artwork, daily schedule and a picture of Aarti- the one from his childhood. But ironically, his chair & desk is now occupied by a replacement. Shahana’s annoyance towards the replacement looks genuine; since till yesterday, the place belonged to the one who is no more. But that is how a system is programmed: the faster a loss is recovered, the lessor is the soreness of a damage.

Aarti also pays a visit with her to the place, where accident actually happened “the broken fence”. The fence to which his car crashed causing him to lose his life. Shahana recollects the yesterday, quoting how happy he was in his new blue blazer and enjoyed throughout the late night party. Aarti cries upon the incident asking why was’nt he stopped from driving in that sozzled condition? Where was the office decorum? and more questions alike. We tend to seek as many reasons as there could be, that may/could have avoided the misery. Accidently, they find Arnob passing by the scene and stopping thereby to know the mother’s well-being. Like any responsible employer he assured that everything is fine and all near relatives are informed. And he offered help getting to know that Aarti is unable to connect Sid’s father. Until this day Aarti has always considered her day of divorce as the black day, not anymore though. Thus, she lost a constant touch with her husband from then.

As she is back to her Son’s flat; Arnob guides her on phone towards Sid’s study table “the room of Sid’s home which she was unaware of existence till day”. A little disappointed from just able to connect to her ex-husband’s answering machine, she moves towards the next morning.

This morning actually paves her path to the room of her child which she never had an access in his entire life span. She is met with the fact that her son was in love. Shahana had no other choice but to tell her, when Aarti fought melodramatically at office to procure her son’s belongings without any delay from Arnob. Her heart descended and sat on the office stairs when She was told that someone may have equal right of possession of belongings as she does; that it’s not just her who is suffering from grief, that her son and Arnob were lovers.

It’s so profound to realise that the reality is actually stranger than fiction.

She doubted, hated and insulted Arnob, when he came to her to return what he had of his beloved. She even accused him of seducing her child, to which he finally broke and tried to counter her by showing her the other side of affection. When he failed to settle the furious mother, he left with a question to her “What is more important to you – an act of seduction or the relationship per se??”

Its conveniently fine to understand that no matter what, we can never believe somethings that are beyond our imagination, until & unless we listen the same from our own self.

Aarti tried talking to know from Shahana, who confessed that she was head over heels for her son but while she expressed her love, Siddhartha gently overruled her with a reason of him being in love with Arnob. Although induced, yet still not convinced to accept something she has never known. She only found a settlement with the truth post reading a saved, unsent draft to the mother in her Son’s phone. She was habitual of listening everything from her lad’s life, however this unsent draft for the mother had given her a message that may be there were somethings which he was still giving a thought for “If she is capable of digesting or accepting it”.

The next day she met Arnob with an open heart, however still struggling with in for this unexpected fact. She tried getting to know this person- how her son recognized some similarities in Arnob with her mother, how this guy is as passionate about life as Aarti herself used to be. She even agrees to share the clothes, the books, the belongings of Siddhartha with him. But not the gifts as Arnob corrected her “gifts are not to be returned”. She suddenly finds that by now she had been unknowingly wearing Arnob’s robe daily while she lived in her son’s flat.

People switch places, relations switch feelings and any particular dress can have alternative bodies to get into a perfect fitting.

Arnob (brilliantly and lyrically enacted by Rituparno Ghosh) is a highly creative person who seems to have a great understanding of female psych. He believes in getting to know life directly in its original raw form. When he was asked about why he prefer eating through hands and not by spoon he referred Nehru saying “eating with fork & spoon is like making love through interpretor.” He personally hated the steel between food & mouth. He wanted things to be in their actual form criticizing keeping the fishes’ captive in a tank, however he was adaptive enough to soon realise that may be fishes have accepted the box as their world like we human do.

We sometimes have few pre-conceived notions about life which is only corrected by an actual experience.

Aarti spent the last day in the city with the person closest to her son. She was snapped and corrected by Arnob at instances where she spoke that she could have her child visited to a psychiatrist at a right age or while she constantly enquired about the sexual interest of her Son. Arnob silently asked her that “what is more grievous for you, his death or the fact that he was Gay”. She couldn’t satisfactorily answer the same, saying – A mother in this situation may go through different emotions. Arnob pronounced that atleast you have two different emotions to switch to while he has a single mountain of a grief for a lost love.

If we give some time to ‘The time’, we tend to know different people and know our different self.

While closing the facebook account of Siddhartha, Arnob wrote on his timeline “If I have to go away, can I leave a bit of me with you??” On her last night Aarti took Arnob out for his b’day celebration and on the way back they found that the broken fence is now repaired. She stepped down in the rain and touched the new fence.

Life do have its own way of fixing and refurbishing things.

As she stepped back in her son’s flat, she found that the pot of ashes has broken due to strong breeze and the remains are set free to flow in the rain.

She left Kolkata the next morning, leaving some gifts for the closed ones – A Sid’s shirt for Shahana and her own sunglasses for Arnob.

May be a small gift puts a comma to a sentence and completes a semi-circle of glittering emotions.

कैसी अजीब दावत है यह, दावत शायद ख़त्म हुई फिर,

सब लोग जा रहे हैं घर, कैसी अजीब दावत है यह…!




Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

a letter awaiting a reply!

Hello Mr. ‘You’

R. No. 119 

Although you told me your name last night. But I am addressing you by ‘You’ for a reason. The same reason for which I am writing to you before I leave the motel this morning.

I had many visits to Manali but this was different and for the first time I am leaving the place with a contention. And believe me if I wouldn’t have written this letter, my contention could never had been accomplished.

Yesterday, at 3:00 AM when I came down, walking outside for some peace. I saw you, I approached you not because I wanted to have a smoke rather I just needed some company to talk. I faked it by telling you that I desperately need a smoke, in fact I have hardly smoked twice or thrice in my entire life. And actually, that scene of a young guy immersed deeply in his thoughts sitting at the rock by the stream-side, and that smoke from his lips creating some mystical image which danced with the symphony of flowing water softly hitting those tiny rocks. Anyone would have got enticed by the view and that aesthetic ambience.

While we talked at length, on different matters, I realised I was missing some part of me since I passed my schooling. It is often said that girls mature at a much wider sense and at a very early stage; but somehow I had been missing my thoughtfulness broadly. May be the more we get into the specifics of life, the more we drift ourselves away from self-introspection. I know it was not intended but our conversation unknowingly touched such topics which intrigued me and my thoughts.

Usually I never do this, but ‘You’ need to know something about me. While what I shared with you from inside of me was all true, straight from my heart. But what I covered for outside of me was all false and cooked up, instantly by my mind.

When I told you that I am in Manali for my work assignment; well that was true. But it isn’t for the construction of any passage in the rear mountains at Vashisht. Also, the fact that I told you that I am being accompanied by my fiancé whom you saw waving and directing me back to the room, is also untrue. I did not want to hinder the quality of our conversation by some irrelevant truthfulness; which ironically seems important now, as I leave the place.

‘You’ shall be acquainted with this: Yes, I work on assignments but the one which are assigned to me are for renting my physical self, and also with that: the one who called me back to the room last night wasn’t a fiancé rather he was ordering me back to work. Do you remember, how we talked about social taboos and interdictions. Well, I am one of the resource as well as production of the same kind.

Whenever I happen to tell someone about my occupation, either I am evaluated as immoral or I am being seen by pity. I shall tell you that, please don’t feel any of them for me. For being immoral is absurd adjective for me, as I am well aware of my ethics. While there are people who see intercourse as a sacred thing that should only be enjoyed only with the person they love or they marry, however there are also people who view it as an ordinary activity that one can do with anyone. And remember that, ‘You’ yourself complimented my thoughts on moral beliefs yesterday, isn’t it?

And for the pity, you may save it for those who needs them actually, I was never forced to do what I do. I am as passionate about my work as you are for writing. The only difference is I have found ways to make it my profession and you’re still imprecise about directions.

‘You’ knew when I told you that how I have tasted success eventually, that was an absolute truth. I started from the streets of Sonagachi, Kolkata to local places of different cities and towns; and then to VIP areas and lavish societies. Moreover, this morning I also got my VISA clearance for Berlin (Germany).

However, I won’t say I have no regrets. I faced dirty challenges, I face them even now sometimes. But as per my fellow professionals’, things are different in Germany. Harlots have their well-defined rights, human trafficking is highly controlled, both the service renderer and recipient are made educated and sensitized of health hazards. People cannot just demand what they feel like. Everything is regulated in a structure, with all mandatory registrations of workers they are endowed with all social benefits just like employees. And evidently there is minimal chances of being abused. Surprisingly, these legalizations were established in the era of 1800s there.

It’s hard to witness harsh realities of life. I have grieved for around ten to fifteen of my fellow workers, who lost their lives due to STDs. Much to misery, one of them was a little girl, not even 18. Due to absence of a definite legal structure, sadly, the little kids are also either forced or lured in this field. I read that a comprehensive study of WHO revealed the fact that prostitutes in India are mostly minors and there is a rapid increase in the numbers in recent years.

‘You’ said you’re studying law, I wanted to ask something yesterday but not wanted to drive the conversation at different and ambiguous direction. But guess I can take advantage of asking the same here in this letter. Even though I know; I am never going to receive a reply to this letter.

A page at Wikipedia says that Prostitution in India is legal, Is that true?

If so, why are we treated in a discriminatory manner? Why don’t the local police who takes bribe for the same, knows this fact? Why are we still charged on criminal grounds for different aids and means of our profession like soliciting, owning brothels and seeking clients for our work? Why isn’t there any person/NGO/ TV ads who/which could educate about our legal rights, if there are any. If government is ready to recognize us, then Why is that we’re still labelled as shady, grey and blacklisted.

I am not expert of interpretations but we are often made victims of circumstances. Honestly, I love my country and I am a little dishearten about leaving my own soil. But this profession of mine, which is one of the most ancient work and once belonged to esteemed-royal services of our country historically; is yet far from a strive to earn its dignity and necessary responsiveness.

Lastly, thank you for being ‘You’ and having a serene conversation. I might be biased about my thoughts but if someday you find answers to my questions, please write a reply and leave it anywhere at the internet.

I might find & read.

                                                                                                                    Thanks, Miss ‘Me’

An acquaintance from the riverside

Saturday, 14.12.2013

(please return the envelope to the receptionist… I just borrowed)

Posted in Narration, Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Uncategorized

A recital to my native speech ~ हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे !



वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Progressive equations are always meant to bring some material advancements in life.

And so was this faintly warm summer day, which itself taught some paces towards a headway for the language which we have always loved,liked and assimilated.

Contentedly all our group members were keen to rejuvenate our mother tongue “Hindi”. I was intrigued by the memories of my own self. The affection with the language might have been a little difficult to be felt upon initially, but while giving a deep thought as I hosted the session; I had my abysmal encounters with the recollections of some very common events. I think they’re so common that each person with their roots and shoots originating from “devanagri” may feel the way as I did while compering in Hindi for the very first time.

बातों की रूह ईमान से जुड़ी, जब हिंदी में बोला

माँ के दूध की आह हुई, तब भी हिंदी में रोया |

बचपन की सलेटी पर, वो पहला अक्षर था ‘क’

और आज भी उत्तर के शोध में रोज़ पूछा जाता ‘क्या?’

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

As the session progressed, remarkably all of us present there in that hall; who were initially struggling and hesitating to have a comfort with our native language, were now able to reminisce the words, sentences, phrases constituting some very interesting actualities and stories.

दादी-नानी की कढ़ाई में पकी, मीठी रसीली कहानी

हिंदी जिसकी स्वाद-याद के तरकश से बरसा पानी |

सपनों में किसी सोच की आँखें, जिस भाषा में खुलती

गुस्से में गाली भी निकले तो भी इस में ही रमती |

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Getting to know the things that we already knew somewhere deep within our self, was a lot more than fun. I was able to see the privilege and the pride in each of our eyes by the end of the session.

“The privilege” for- we have competently inherited one of the very complexed and primeval languages of the world. And “The pride” for- On that day, we substantiated our own selves that this generation is capable enough to sustain the language with the same lavishness and we’re more than eager to pass the legacy to the new ones.

रंगोली, सुरभि और तरंग सब हिंदी के प्रत्यक्ष !

गाने फ़िल्मी या पुण्य भजन हों, गाते हिंदी के अक्स !!

दफ्तर से घर तक की दूरी, करते हम पूरी !

तो क्या हिन्दी की आधुनिक शाखा, रहने दें अधूरी ??

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

Perfect menu in my plate : Some Pickles with letters to weight

Not that I know importance of colours very deeply but I still feel that they have something in them which supplies a mood of rhythmic divine.

With celebrations concluding I dusted the dry gulaal off my face and joined back the warm cup of green tea and heaps of virtual files waiting for me in an empty meeting room at the 19th floor of the cyber city glass tower. The festive season coupled with March closing has its own disputed flavour. I spent another continuous 5 hours with balancing numbers, equating cash flows and generating memos.

The wave of Start-ups has created a new culture of its own, they usually create a one-man army from each of us equipped with all automated resources & tools updated on our dear companion – The laptop.

A large clock at the rear end of cafeteria knocked a sharp 12. Usually it’s a difficult vision from the place I was sitting, but it’s almost as easy to note two needles coinciding at top end of a circle as to a slow, balanced & centred delivery at a bowling alley which comfortably assures a Strike.

I thought it must be a high time I should remind myself of some supper needs. I walked out and took the elevator to ground floor. Ironically, we have all sorts of cuisine serving restaurants & food courts in cyber area but still the place which is most alive at this hour of a night is dhabas & sutta corners.

I walked straight inside to the corner back end table. Picking this table had 3 reasons- firstly, while sitting here one can have a whole view of dhaba; secondly, this table is hardly noticeable for a single person sitting & dining; and thirdly, it was the only unoccupied table with a single stool left to sit upon.

Ya garmiyon ki raat jo purwaiyan chale, thandi safed chaadaron pe jaage der tak

taaron ko dekhte rahe chath par pade huye… Dil dhoodta hai fir vahi, fursat ke….!

Today, this dhaba has a very endearing taste of old Bollywood songs, thanks to the owner who let its customer connect speakers with their bluetooth device. While I ordered Keema parantha, this song had already started to fill the hollow sphere inside me. I started to hum the lyrics along with the tune and enjoy the view of corporate crowd rushing in and out of the dhaba.

And then this orange hair-streaked girl met my eyes in the hope of finding a table, I caught the same and signalled her that although I have some space in this small plastic table but there is no extra stool. She still came to me telling the waiter on her way to deliver her order here at my table. While she came to me I felt a little agitated and thinking “what is she expecting? She shouldn’t be thinking of me offering her my stool.” She waved at me with a smile and kept her belongings on a table. I told her at once “Actually I am yet to start and I am waiting for my order”. She replied “Yes, its fine. I assume you’re here by yourself, right.” I nodded Yes with no further clue of how is she going to make a seating at my table.

Suddenly a guy at the next table came to her carrying his own seat in his hand “excuse me I think you’re looking for a stool”. She responded “Ohh this is yours, I have told bhaiya to arrange one”. The guy insisted “No worries I’l take the other one, looks he is taking a while (he stopped, gazed and said) or if you want you may join me at the table there with my team.” She took the stool with a long smile “Ohh stool is fine, Thank you Sir”. “Arrey its Vikram and yeah pleasure is all mine” he said as he left back to his dining squad.

I was amazed both at the timings of this change in the background song to

“aane vala pal jaane vala hai, Ho Sake to Iss Mein Zindagi Bitaado, Pal Jo Yeh Jaanewala hai”

and also at exaggeratedly humble approach to the lady by this guy who coincidently shares the same name as mine. So she sat while both our orders were placed on the table, I had an obvious satirical smile over my face with the lines

“ek baar waqt se Lamha Gira Kahin, Wahaan Dastan Mili Lamha Kahin Nahin, Thoda Sa Hasaake Thoda Sa Rulaake, Pal Ye Bhi Jaanewala Hai Ho Ho..”

She calmly opened to me “what’s the point to grin about?” I said “Ohh nothing, it’s just the song and…”

She: “And? And what?”

Me: “Well.. the song & the situation”

She snapped “there is No situation.”

I steadily answered “If there isn’t then why is this Vikram guy sitting with his i-pad getting the song changed to…?”

“Tum aa gae ho, noor aa gya hai…nahin to charago se lau jaa rahi thi”

She ignored my reference and said very dramatically “this waiter is messed up, see my alloo ka parantha is in your plate while your keema parantha is in mine.” And she swapped the plates swiftly. As I was starving and given that a delicious keema parantha with amul butter floating all over, was calling me for a good time with it; I started to ate.

Arrey what’s the hurry? You know if you call yourself that foodie then you must wait for all the right dishes to be present in your plate. While she said this, she poured some home-made pickles from a tiny earthen pot kept on the table, the one she always carry in her jute bag. I was delighted “Myra, I must say I have never had a achaar as fine as you bring.”


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​आज फिर याद आया मायका !

आज फिर याद आया उसे अपना मायका।  ‘मायका’ माँ का घर यानि माँ के पति का घर, माँ की ससुराल, पर उनकी बेटी का तो है मायका यानि माँ का घर। याद नही कब वह इस शब्द से परिचित हुई, कब जाना इस शब्द का संपू…

Source: आज फिर याद आया मायका !